


Written and Directed by Tweek

by cocoacremeandgays



Series: Three Sides [2]
Category: South Park
Genre: Acting, Aged-Up Characters, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Dysfunctional Relationships, Guilt, M/M, Medication, Panic Attacks, Please read with caution, Reader Discretion is Advised, Softball, Theater Class, Trauma, migraines, money problems, monologues, third-person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-09-29 23:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 79,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: "What's the first rule of improv?""Never say no!"((AKA: After Craig's risky decisions land him a spot in theater class, he starts to understand the importance of empathy.))





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> a few quick notes about this story:  
> this is part 2 in "Three Sides"  
> in a way, this is the tweek and craig version of the events that unfold during SYSBFK, but there's more to it than just that. this can be its own standalone story, but it'll probably make a little more sense if SYSBFK is read first. it's not necessary, though.  
> please read with caution.

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A PARTICULARLY QUIET MOUNTAIN - NIGHT**

In the scene, a teenage boy stands at the edge of a cliff. His back is turned to the ledge. He does not consider jumping off. It is a safe place— a place where he can scream at the sky. His words will always catch in the clouds, and perhaps that is why he finds the mountain so reassuring.

His mouth runs a million miles a minute. He’s breathless as he tries to explain the exhilarating feeling of the wind in his hair. He can’t do it justice, though; the feeling of empty air and solitude just behind him is one of the most liberating things in the world. At some point, he starts to speak with his hands, gesturing with every single sentence that falls from his mouth. There are so many thoughts in his brain, he has trouble coordinating them. They roam like his fingers, unintentionally picking and plucking at the buttons and fabric of his shirt.

He wants to relay the way the mountaintop feels so badly. He wants his boyfriend to know and understand him in this one way, if in no other. This mountain feels more _him_ than his own body, and with that, he’s come to understand that, if anyone wants to really know him and how he feels, they will have to imagine the mountain. They will have to imagine the rolling tides, and the crisp rocks, and the tumble of grass down the side, peppering the dirt with shade upon shade upon _shade_ of the same color.

_Click-click-click._

The scene shatters, and all that’s left is a boy, a dog, and her best friend.

No longer on the mountain, Tweek almost shudders at the sudden juxtaposition. Craig’s bedroom unfolds around him, and then he frowns. He’s back in the real world, now, where he can’t imagine things nearly as calming and ultimate as that mountaintop he so wished for. Tweek kicks his feet against the carpet, drops his hands from their gesturing, and stops in his talking. He watches Craig, who stares at his phone with mild disinterest.

Craig stretches, then, his spine pressing against the edge of his bed where he sits on the floor. His legs are spread out, and on them lays a gently panting golden retriever. She wags her tail like this is the best thing she’s ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Then again, she’s always like that. She’s the happiest being Tweek has ever known in his entire life, and he’s known a lot of beings. His parents are almost chronically happy, but they’re not, like, _excitable_ or anything. Not usually, at least.

Jesus. That would be weird.

“Craig,” Tweek says, narrowing his eyes into the recollecting dimness of the room. Craig hums in response, which, at this point, Tweek knows is all he’ll get for now. He can see the way Craig is gently stroking Pandora’s coat. Ultimately, he gets it, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a little upset about being ignored. “Were you listening to me?”

“Yes, honey,” replies Craig. His phone buzzes. Tweek hears it. The confirmation is easy to corroborate, especially when Craig taps whatever notification popped up. Tweek frowns deeper.

“You weren’t, were you?”

“I was,” Craig says, but Tweek isn’t exactly convinced. Tweek crosses his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers halfheartedly against his elbows. Craig frowns at his phone screen.

“Then what was I talking about?” Tweek prods, leaning on the balls of his feet, bordering dangerously on accusing.

“Mountains,” Craig replies. “It was your best friend or something, I don’t know.”

Tweek huffs. He uncrosses his arms suddenly, giving a sweeping, exasperated gesture. “You said you would help me with my monologues!”

Craig finally turns off his phone and looks up. “Babe, I don’t know how much help I’m supposed to be, I’m not exactly great at the whole ‘emotions and words’ thing.”

“I don’t understand how this is hard for you,” Tweek argues. “It’s just words! Communication is the whole fucking point of language— Jesus, man, feelings are, like, most of what human interaction is all about.”

Tweek can see the words forming on Craig’s lips, but before they’re made public, Craig shuts them off. He lowers his gaze. His hair falls into his eyes, limiting the amount of vision Tweek has of his face. Before long, Craig has nestled into a rhythm of petting Pandora. Tweek, still upset, decides to say what had been left unspoken.

“I don’t _understand_ you, man.” Tweek smooths out his shirt, his palms pressing wrinkles down. “I don’t understand you _at all_.”

  
**BEGIN ACT ONE**  
**“To Understand”**


	2. Case Study #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Kenny McCormick

**CASE STUDY #1:**   
**KENNETH “KENNY” MCCORMICK**

_Some very important facts about: Kenny McCormick_

_Kenny McCormick is a natural blond, with blue eyes, and freckles (sun-induced). The freckles are fading. Kenny McCormick never leaves his house without his parka, and he only takes it off when he feels like it. Kenny McCormick’s actions are simple like that._

The air in Craig’s bedroom is dry. He wouldn’t describe it as stale, because it isn’t, and he is not a liar.

McCormick lays on Craig’s bed, sprawled on his stomach. His knees are bent. His feet are in the air. He’s been sitting like that for approximately two minutes (and 45 seconds), and he shows no outward signs of wanting to move.

Thud.

Craig tells him, “dude, don’t kick my wall.”

McCormick ignores him and does it again. The toe of his boot (left) kicks against the wall for the second time in the span of a few (5) seconds.

_Side Note: Kenny McCormick only does what he wants, and he is respected for that._

Craig sniffs. His eyes water. He is not crying, he is just sick. The cold arrived a week ago. He is in the throes of it now, but it should clear up soon. McCormick pushes one of Craig’s pillows off of the bed. Not even a second (.59) later, he drags himself forward and leans just enough to reclaim the pillow. Once the pillow is back in his possession, McCormick scoots back onto the bed.

McCormick throws the pillow at Craig. It hits his face with a muffled _pouf_. Craig chooses not to react. The pillow falls into his lap.

McCormick asks him, “d’ya just need the usual?”

_Relationship: Kenny McCormick is my supplier._

Craig pulls his messenger bag off. He drops it onto his bed, and sits beside McCormick. He pulls out only a handful of (2) things.

He clicks the button of his pen repetitively, thinking as he stares at his Book of Supply. The code names are as follows: _Bullshit_ , _BS_ , and _Bologna Sandwich_. Craig is most partial to BS. He flips to the most recent page of updated supply (pg. 20). He holds it up for Kenny to read.

Craig says, “I need this, McCormick. Can you come through?”

Amused, McCormick hums. He yawns, opening his mouth wide. Then, he answers, “no shit, I can come through, it’s the same crap as always… why d’you always gotta ask that?”

Craig entertains the thought of indulging McCormick, but finds the hypothetical scenario boring. Craig shuts the book and says, “just get the shit.”

McCormick snorts and rolls onto his back. His boots are pushing against the wall, right next to Craig’s picture of Abell 2744.

Craig takes note of that. He will move the poster for future situations.

McCormick says, “whatever you say, boss.”

_Footnote: Kenny McCormick hasn’t taken drugs since he was eight._


	3. Act I Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the ball is no one’s bitch.

_Eyes on the ball._

Craig tightens his grip on the bat, strengthening his stance. He digs his heels into the shifting dirt, creating little dips his feet can keep steady in.

_Eyes on the ball, Craig._

Clyde winds his hand back; goes the extra mile and lifts his leg like the pros. He might not be the fastest runner, or the best at keeping confident with projectiles flying at him, but hot _damn_ can the kid throw a good pitch. He’s the best on the team, and he always has been— the odds of that changing, ever, are slim to none.

But Craig has been studying. He knows how Clyde’s brain works. He knows his tics. He knows his tells. He knows his twitches. Most importantly, he knows the ball.

And the ball is no one’s bitch.

It flashes in seconds. Clyde throws the ball, Craig examines the trajectory, calculates where his hands should be, and swings.

 _Ping_.

Past second base, to the left of the center fielder. Craig drops the bat and sprints to first base. He slows his run, finally coming to a jog a foot or so after having gotten to his goal. He turns in a tiny loop to reorient himself to the base, and comes to a stop next to Kevin Stoley. He kicks his shoe against the corner of the base, staring wide-eyed at Craig.

“What do you want?” Craig asks. He removes his baseball cap and cards his fingers through his hair, settling the mess it’s inevitably become. Kevin blinks for a second, and then shrugs.

“How do you run so fast?” Kevin asks.

Craig replaces his hat. He turns around, his back to Kevin, and responds, “pure, unadulterated awesomeness.” That earns him a kick to the ankle, which Craig happily returns in response. Their interaction is interrupted by the dull sound of a missed swing. Coach calls first strike, to which the batter, Butters Stotch, hunkers more firmly down in his stance. A look of determination is there, distinct in his expression.

Clyde throws the second pitch. Butters swings at it again, but he misses it by an inch or so. Butters mutters something about hamburgers, and kicks at a pile of dust not two inches from his left foot. Then, he goes back to his stance. His look of determination returns, stronger. With a sigh, Kevin asks, “Isn’t that a little cruel?”

He nods in reference to Butters’ predicament.

“I mean, he’s blind in that eye, right?”

Craig does not look at Kevin. His eyes remain firmly on the ball as it flies towards Clyde, who catches it with little issue. In that moment, Craig notices a few different things.

**Clyde:**  
**I. hops the ball between his hands, alternating between his bare palm and his gloved palm**

**II. pushes the glove further onto his hand with the ball, and**

**III. rolls his left shoulder.**

“He has his elbow out,” Craig says, which has nothing to do with Clyde whatsoever. Kevin startles at the sudden information, shaking his head slowly.

“What?” he asks. Without looking over, Craig points to Butters. At some point, Stotch had stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrow and focused.

“He needs to lower his elbow,” Craig notes. “If he doesn’t, he’s going to miss the hit.”

Kevin looks at Butters. “Dude, how do you know that?”

Craig does not respond. He rests his palms on his knees, his legs parted so his stance is more solid. He is ready to run to second, preparing early. Kevin gives Craig a look, but doesn’t comment on it. In many ways, Craig is grateful for that.

Clyde draws his arm back again. His movement is almost identical to the other three throws Craig witnessed. There is a keyword, however, and that keyword is _almost_. Craig pinpoints a difference in Clyde’s lift. Clyde throws, and Craig exclaims, “you’re dumb!”

The shout startles Butters, who ends up swinging high.

 _Ping_.

Craig darts to second. Butters’ eyes are wide as he watches the ball zip straight past Clyde’s right ear.

_Eyes on the ball._

Craig narrowly manages to duck out of the trajectory. The kids sitting out are screaming for Butters to run. Unsurprisingly, that is exactly what Butters does.

Craig almost trips when he forgets about the height of the base, but manages to catch himself before he falls. Automatically, he breathes a sigh of relief and meanders until he’s hovering second base. He doesn’t know the second baseman kid, and this kid doesn’t know him. They ignore each other.

The next batter is a freshman. He’s a little on the chubby side, and Craig doesn’t know his name, but he has seen him around before. The kid strikes out, and Craig feels zero obligation to help him in his endeavors. Token is up next, and immediately, Clyde’s posture tightens. Craig snorts quietly.

“Side note,” he mumbles to himself, “Token is a better player.”

“Um… did you say something?” comes the wimpy voice of the second baseman. Craig doesn’t even consider giving him the time of day.

Everyone is taken by surprise when Token’s hit is sub-par. It barely shoots beyond the third baseman, who is entirely too shocked to catch it on time. Craig doesn’t wait for the ruling; he knows it’s a fair ball. Everyone else on this field are just idiots.

But then third baseman whips around and lifts his glove to catch the ball from the left fielder, and Craig has to act fast. His jog turns to a sprint. Third baseman is going to catch the ball. Craig knows it.

**Mistake number:**  
**I. Craig is prideful**

**II. Craig underestimates the third baseman, and**

**III. Craig aborts the option of running like a normal human and decides to trust his knowledge of physics to carry him to third.**

It happens in split seconds, of course, but it feels significantly longer. He leans back, until he’s sliding feet-first toward his goal. His shoes hit the base, but then his ass and the back of his head smack against the field.

“Oh, shit!” says third baseman. He cradles the softball in his glove and holds out his free hand for Craig to take. Craig does not take his hand. Instead, Craig makes a decision.

“I don’t like you,” Craig says matter-of-factly. He pushes himself up from the gravel. As soon as he’s standing, he can feel an ache radiating from the side of his ankle. It isn’t sharp, so he knows it isn’t scraped. It’s just sensitive, the way it gets when he _almost_ twists it, but manages to save himself last-second. That doesn’t stop it from being rather uncomfortable.

Craig forgets about the sensitivity, though, when he has to run for home. He also forgets the dips in the dirt just beside the home plate.

**The result:**  
**I. Craig twists his ankle.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! :)  
> next update on saturday, january fifth!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	4. Act I Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He finds it too repetitive, however, and refrains.

Craig limps off the field with a pained ankle, a scuffed hat, and a slightly dented ego. The game isn’t over, but Coach tells him to sit the rest of it out and elevate his foot, so he supposes that is what he is going to pretend to do. Perhaps it goes without saying that Craig tried to argue, but he finds it a notable piece of information nonetheless. He sits down at the end of the bench, but does not elevate his ankle. He would rather not display his injury.

Token sits beside him, quickly followed by a hyped-up Clyde and fidgeting Butters. Craig opens his mouth, but does not get to say anything. Everyone else talks at the same time, but only one of those things seems to be addressed to him, so he acknowledges that one first.

It’s Butters, and he knocks his fists together as he asks, “why did you say I was stupid?”

“Because you are,” Craig says.

Clyde comes in with a sharp bark of, “bull! Craig, you don’t do shit without thinking about it! Why’d ya shout it there, huh?”

Craig flips him off.

“Dude, not cool,” Clyde mutters.

“Clyde has a point.” This time Token is the one who talks. He’s biting at a hangnail on his left thumb, and he speaks through it with little difficulty. “What the hell was going through your mind that made shouting so important?”

Craig finds the conversation boring. His attention is brought to Coach, who is off to the side chatting with the kid who struck out after Butters was up to bat. He imagines a different conversation, one where someone gets in trouble and kicked off the team.

It amuses him, unlike the annoying voice of Clyde Donovan, who keeps blabbing on about the inner workings of the enigma that is _The Brain of Craig Tucker_.

“Craig, hey, earth to Craig?” says that same annoying voice, and Craig entertains the thought of flipping him off again. He finds it too repetitive, however, and refrains.

“Alright, group two!” calls Coach, waving the referenced half of the team over to the field. Token and Butters glance over. Craig would, too, except for the fact that he’s been told to dump the rest of the game in favor of respite. His eyes are glued to the chain link fence that separates the bench from the softball field.

“That’s our cue,” Token states.

Unable to help himself, Craig sarcastically replies, "you don't say."

Token just rolls his eyes before he and Butters leave to take their rightful positions on the field. Clyde takes Token’s previous spot, and slides in as close as possible to Craig. Clyde has never had a sense for personal space. Either that, or he’s simply shameless. Maybe both. Craig still has not figured out which is most likely.

“Why did you shout at Butters?” Clyde asks.

Craig is getting annoyed by that repetitive question. They never cared before, why would they care now?

One of the few girls on the team picks up the bat and makes her way to home plate. The pitcher for group two was _supposed_ to be Craig, but now it’s some douche with a crew cut. Craig doesn’t know that kid’s name, either, but he decides he looks a little like a Brad. And Brad, in all his fuckboy glory, wipes the side of the softball off on his jersey.

Craig flips Brad off. Unfortunately, Brad does not notice.

Impatiently, Clyde whines, “Craaaig.”

_Eyes on the ball._

Craig’s visual attention is attuned strictly to the softball, even as it flies out of Brad’s hand and hits the girl’s swing with no issue. The girl drops the bat and runs to first; the ball skids to the center fielder, who throws it to third, who throws it back to Brad.

When the ball is stationary again, Craig thinks back to his own hit of the ball. He replays the memory in his brain, and only stops it when he gets to the part he wants to remember. He plays the thoughts back in his head.

“Your hands were getting sweaty,” Craig states, reaching down to rub his injured ankle. It soothes the ache.

Silence.

_Eyes on the ball._

Kevin’s up to bat next. He pats the base with the bat and squints at the ball in Brad’s hand.

“How the fuck did you know my hands were getting sweaty?” Clyde asks. Then, he thinks better of the question. With a shake of his head, he changes to, “what does that have to do with anything, anyway?”

Craig shrugs. “You were going to aim high, all I did was give Butters the incentive to do the same.”

“By telling him he was stupid?”

“Yes.”

Clyde’s mouth falls open, and his brows are furrowed like he can’t comprehend the situation. “You could have distracted him!”

“No,” counters Craig, “I did distract him.”

“That— dude, no.” Clyde squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “I mean, like, you could have _super distracted him_. Like, he could have looked away or not swung, or gotten hit in the face with the ball. He’s already, like, half-blind. That's an  _entire_ fourth of Helen Keller, y'know!”

“An entire fourth, huh?” replies Craig. “As opposed to what? Half of a fourth?”

“As opposed to, like, an _eighth_ , stupid.”

**Fun Fact: the only numbers Clyde understands are clothing sizes.**

“Oh,” Craig says. “Right, of course, I see.”

“Then why did you do it, bro?”

Craig sniffs, trying to keep his eyes from watering. The dry air from the onset of cold is rough on his sinuses. “Because it would be amusing no matter how it played out.”

A noise of surprise erupts from Clyde's throat. “Wait! You _totally_ just wanted an excuse to call Butters dumb, didn’t you!”

Craig doesn’t correct him. “You know me so well,” he says. Clyde belts a laugh.

“Really? Wow, that’s stupid, dude, your brain is so simple.”

Craig just replies with, “yep.”

Kevin strikes out. He leaves the field with an air of defeat. The next kid is another nobody, in Craig’s book. Brad wastes no time in trying to wipe the floor with that sucker, but he’s quickly affected by the backfire of his own cockiness. The batter easily hits Brad’s pitch.

Craig’s brows raise when the ball flies back at Brad, who stares dumbly. It hits him in the face. He takes it like a champ, though, and catches it before it hits the ground. He whips it at second baseman, who catches it and tags the girl before she can claim stake at the plate. Craig notices two things.

 **Brad:**  
**I. acts without thinking and**

**II. does it intelligently.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol not even three days in and i already broke my update schedule.  
> okok the *next* update will be on saturday. 
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	5. Act I Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig looks back at the moon.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Craig hoists his duffel bag over his shoulder and pushes it behind his hip so it’s out of the way. His gaze is locked on Tweek, who sits just off the beaten path of the school’s sports field, where the sheds are. The things Craig notices are simple.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. has his back pressed against the outside wall of the shed**

**II. has his shoes and socks off with his feet in the grass, and**

**III. has his headphones over his ears.**

Furthermore, there is a notebook in his lap, and in it, there is neat, small cursive writing. Craig does not try to read it, nor does he really pay attention to it. The detail is noted, but he deems it trivial. Tweek pulls his headphones off of his ears. There is a soft, thumping beat that comes out of them.

“I wanted to,” replies Tweek. He grabs his shoes and begins to put on his socks, allowing his notebook to fall off of his lap and into the grass. About six inches away from Tweek’s left thigh, there is a small grass spider. Craig waits for Tweek to gather his things. He wants to start walking, though, and he’s unable to stop himself from shifting from foot to foot in the early chill.

Tweek stands and shoves the rest of his stuff into his backpack. His headphones are looped around his neck, and they’re plugged into his phone. They still play music; Craig can still hear the beat. He doesn’t say anything about it.

The two start walking. Craig enjoys having the path to themselves, and he enjoys the dusk. He can’t say for sure what time it is, but if he had to guess, he would say it was no later than six. Practice always ended around five forty, so it’s a little later than he’s used to. Overall, though, the stillness is nice. He almost forgets about his aching ankle.

“You’re limping,” Tweek says a few minutes later. He doesn't look over when he speaks, and neither does Craig.

“Yeah,” is how Craig replies.

Curiously, Tweek asks, “Why?”

Craig admits he messed up his ankle.

Once they make it over the final hill into the main populous of the neighborhood, Craig takes Tweek’s hand in his own. Tweek’s palm is soft, but the backs of his hands are chapped. Craig rubs the pad of his thumb over Tweek’s knuckles.

“You haven’t been using lotion,” says Craig. Tweek glances at Craig out of the corner of his eye.

“I have,” he defends. “It just dries out quickly.”

“Then use more.”

_I don’t want your hands to crack._

The moon peaks out from a large partition of the clouds above them. It shines brightly. Tweek notices, and stops walking; Craig stops, too.

Both of them stare up at the moon. Craig pinpoints the largest craters visible from Earth with the naked eye. He can’t see the exact details. No one can. But, Craig has learned how to distinguish the patterns of the surface with his visual memory. He finds it soothing, to imagine the moon closer than it really is. Simultaneously, there is something soothing about imagining it further away. Sometimes it is best to forget it exists at all, though those times are few and far between.

“Do you ever just— ” cuts Tweek, his eyes narrow and his pupils dilated in the brightness of the moon. “— like, think about how the moon is in a totally different world from ours?”

Craig tips his head to further detail the contours of a crater. “No,” he replies, “it’s not a different world.”

“What? No, I mean, not literally, but like, it’s…” Tweek’s words stop coming, then. Craig forces himself to look away from the moon. Tweek is biting his lip.

_Stop doing that, you’ll bleed._

“It’s so far away,” Tweek says. “It has no idea we exist, it just turns in space and exists and doesn’t care.”

“It’s not sentient, babe,” says Craig.

With an eye roll, Tweek replies, “I _know_ that.”

“There are billions of moons out there,” Craig says. “That moon isn’t the only moon, so if it was sentient, it probably wouldn’t be very alone.”

Tweek stops biting his lip. His grip on Craig’s hand loosens. Craig looks back at the moon.

_I don’t understand you._

Maybe Tweek is getting at something, but Craig doesn’t have the patience to imagine what it could be.

_I don’t understand you at all._

Craig wants to keep walking. He gently pulls Tweek’s hand. Tweek removes himself from Craig completely. Craig keeps looking at the moon.

_Eyes on the ball._

“What are you idiots doing?”

The moonlight on the path before them is blocked out by the large body of Eric Cartman. He is not particularly threatening. He never has been. The only thing on his side is the mass he’s managed to carry around for his entire life. Craig doesn’t know when, but at some point, Eric earned himself a letterman jacket.

Craig does not want to deal with the bullshit of Eric Cartman.

“C’mon, babe, lets go,” Craig says. He goes to grab Tweek’s hand again, but Tweek recoils. Craig takes the hint and shoves his hands into his pockets. Eric takes the chance to approach. His weight is carried forward with his chest; he’s pompous. He wants something. He is untrustworthy. Eric stops not a foot in front of Craig. Eric is half an inch shorter. Eric speaks.

“I— ”

_I don’t like you._

Craig punches Eric in the stomach. Eric doubles over, makes a pained noise, and wheezes something along the lines of, “I’m seriously, you guys, oh my god.”

There was something before that, too, but Craig didn’t hear it, so it doesn’t matter.

Craig grabs Tweek’s hand. Tweek is still distracted, gaping at the aching form of Eric, even as they walk away down the sidewalk. “ _Craig_ ,” says Tweek. His eyes are wide. Alarmed. But this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Tweek swallows. Craig pretends it didn’t happen.

“Did you get the notes from French today?” Craig asks.

“I…" begins Tweek, but he trails to a stop. He glances warily behind them, conflicted about Eric. Eventually, he continues, "do you really even need to ask that?” and Craig thinks, _yes_.

“No,” Craig says. “Can I borrow them?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Um... no problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be up on monday (january 7th)!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	6. Act I Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig does not believe him.

“ _Bonjour, la classe_ ,” calls Madame, standing before her corner desk.

“ _Bonjour, Madame_!” returns the class. Madame smiles.

“ _Est-ce que vous avez de l’information française_?”

Immediately, Craig’s brain translates.

_Do you have French information?_

Some girl near the center of the room raises her hand. Madame calls on her, and she starts to talk about a certain type of makeup she uses which has a French name. Craig rapidly becomes bored of the in-class discussion of French beauty products. His notebook is out, and so is his favorite blue pencil. He scribbles something down. It is indecipherable, even to himself.

“ _Intéressant, ça_!” says Madame, clapping her hands together. The sound is soft, so it does not give Craig reason to withdraw himself from the activities he’s busied his brain with. He results to jotting down numbers, practicing general addition and trying to find patterns. Distantly, he listens to what Madame is saying. He can comprehend it with little difficulty. “ _Quelqu’un d’autre_?”

Someone else raises their hand. Another conversation commences, this time about some French translation they found on a bottle of shampoo.

Craig glances up from his notebook, and looks at the person sitting across from him. Tweek, the eraser of his pencil between his teeth, stares at Madame. Craig has seen that look of his before; he is stressed about something. Craig takes inventory of the noises in the classroom.

 **In the classroom:**  
**I. there are approximately two other tables engaging in side-conversation**

**II. there is one other table giggling and passing notes, and**

**III. Madame is distracted.**

Craig leans over his notebook, resting his elbow on the surface of the table. Tweek does not notice. “ _Ça va_?” Craig whispers, and Tweek practically leaps out of his seat. He drops his pencil, which falls to the floor and rolls under the desk. He ducks to grab it. A few seconds later, he pops back up. No one else in the class notices. Craig repeats the question, but in English this time. “You okay?”

Tweek looks at Craig. His eyes are wide open. He is calming down from a jolt of adrenaline. His hands are shaking, and his leg is bouncing. Amid the anxious reaction, Tweek glances over to Madame, who pays them no mind. Tweek nods in affirmation. Craig does not believe him.

“Do you need a break?” Craig asks, and Tweek’s eyes widen even more. His face goes pale. His leg bounces more forcefully.

“No,” hisses Tweek. He tears at the skin of his lip with his teeth. They were already chapped. It’s likely they will bleed.

_Please stop that, you’ll hurt yourself._

Craig knows Tweek can’t help it. He knows Tweek probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He knows Tweek is thinking about something. He wants to know what it is, but he knows he will have to be patient. Sometimes, things take time.

Craig turns back to his notebook. Numbers.

He becomes frustrated when he cannot find any patterns in them. He tries to understand what his brain is working through, because it is certainly working through something. It always is. He just has to figure out what. The part of his brain that puts things into words cannot make sense of the mess that is the rest of him. It frustrates him.

Craig tries something new. He forgets the numbers. He scratches them out with the side of his pencil, so the marks are light and he can still see them for later revisiting. On a different part of the page, he shades in a square, that is approximately four by three inches. With the lightly shaded square, Craig pauses.

He darkens the corners of it, and then lightens a very small, oval of a shape in the center.

_Only five percent of Abell 2744’s mass is actually made up of galaxies._

Craig fills the very small, oval of a shape back in. He has a new strategy. In the center of the shaded square, he draws a small Venn diagram. He gives up on the drawing. Not because he’s upset by it, but because he would rather not draw it. He remembers a few things.

 **Craig remembers:**  
**I. Pandora’s cluster**

**II. the poster on his wall, and**

**III. Pandora the golden retriever.**

Craig looks at Tweek. He is still chewing on his lip. There is no blood. Craig is relieved by that.

Madame starts to go through the textbook. The expo-marker squeaks against the white board as she starts on the conjugation of today’s verbs. Craig takes in the information without caring about studying later. He knows he will retain it. He always does. Conjugation is just patterns, and Craig is good with patterns.

Patterns are simple. Patterns are familiar. Patterns are boring.

That’s just the way Craig likes it.

Madame’s lesson on imperfect verb conjugation is relatively short, and Craig finds himself diving into the homework without issue. Madame tells the class to work with their tables, but Craig disregards that. Both himself and Tweek prefer to work alone, and although Scott Malkinson is a decent guy, Craig thinks he is a bit of a moron. Scott and Craig don’t talk to each other. More or less, they both pretend the other doesn’t exist.

**Another fact: Tweek is more or less their mediator.**

“Wait, that doesn’t sound right, is it?” Scott mutters to himself. Craig ignores him. But then Scott asks, “Guys, is this right?” and Craig realizes he wasn’t muttering to himself at all. He was literally asking for help.

Craig just tries to bury himself in his work.

_Conjugate the words in parentheses._

_Mes frères et moi, nous (4)  (jouer) au football avec des copains dans le jardin._

“Let me see,” Tweek finally says. Scott slides his work over to Tweek. “Which one?”

Scott points.

“Oh,” replies Tweek, “no, that’s not right.”

“What did I get wrong?” asks Scott. “What am I missing?”

Tweek explains the lesson in much more condensed language than Madame used, but Craig tunes their conversation out. When he is two questions away from the end of his homework, Craig finds himself no longer staring at the worksheet. Instead, he’s looking at a small piece of paper. Madame had come by and dropped it on his notebook.

Craig flips the paper over.

 **HALL PASS FOR: Craig Tucker**  
**TIME: 11:03**  
**LEAVING FROM: French 3**  
**GOING TO: Counselor’s office**  
**REASON: N/A**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update will be on wednesday, january 9th
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	7. Act I Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries to establish an equation.

One fun fact about Craig is that he went to see a therapist approximately once in his life. He was thirteen, and his parents were worried about his “depressed mood”. He did not tell them he wasn’t depressed, mostly because they’d never actually asked him. He didn’t say much to the therapist back then, and he hasn’t said anything to the one staring him down now.

It is probably worth noting that this person likely isn’t a licensed therapist. Or, if they are, they’re not very good at their job. They’ve been promoted from the elementary school to the high school, though, so that’s something.

Craig straightens his legs out before himself, digging his heels into the carpeted floor. The chair he sits in is much too squishy. There is no support, and his back is starting to hurt. To counter this, he crosses his arms tightly over his chest and pretends the rest of his body doesn’t exist. He studies Mr. Mackey the same way Mr. Mackey studies him— harshly. Craig notices three things.

 **Mr. Mackey:**  
**I. has his hands resting on his desk**

**II. has his fingers laced together, and**

**III. has an overflowing trashcan.**

Craig finds fact three of utmost importance, and dips his gaze down far enough to examine Mr. Mackey’s trashcan. It is full of nothing other than crumpled papers. He can see no writing on them, except for one. The writing he can see on that one is as follows:

 **TRUANCY NOTICE FOR: Stanley Marsh DATE: 11/2**  
**PLEASE REPORT TO THE DEAN TO DISCUSS YOUR U**

“We received a concerning complaint regarding something that happened after school, m’kay,” says Mr. Mackey. Craig is already bored. He stretches his legs out again, finding a very small amount of joy in kicking Mr. Mackey’s desk. He finds an even higher amount of joy in Mr. Mackey’s immediate response. “Please don’t kick my desk, m’kay, that’s not very polite.”

Craig flips Mr. Mackey off with little regard for the consequences. He has been here plenty of times before. He is no stranger to this situation, nor is he a stranger to exactly what pisses Mr. Mackey off. Craig isn’t certain the reasoning behind Mr. Mackey’s irritation from Craig’s crude gestures, but if he had to guess, Craig would say it was because of just how often he saw it.

“A student let us know that you acted out, m’kay,” Mr. Mackey elaborates. Craig blinks once, looks at Mr. Mackey, studies his face, and then quickly looks back to the trashcan. Craig comes up with a few different questions, of which he only vaguely wants to know the answers to.

 **Topics of interest:**  
**I. why are you only throwing away paper?**

**II. are all of those inconsequential documents?**

**III. when was the last time you emptied your trashcan?**

“I’ve spoken to the principal, m’kay,” Mr. Mackey brings it up like Craig gives a damn. Spoiler alert: he doesn’t. Craig zeroes in on the fact that Mr. Mackey is rubbing the pad of his left thumb over the knuckle of his right. Craig knows that gesture. He knows it very well. His gaze flicks up to Mr. Mackey’s face. Nothing looks amiss on the surface, but there is a certain tenseness in his left brow.

Craig finds this interesting. He allows his body to straighten up in an outward display of his intrigue. Mr. Mackey notices the action, but he does not accurately establish the reason behind it.

“And she has decided to decline your request, m’kay, for a study hall in sixth period...”

Craig isn’t listening— not actively. He’s focusing on what could be making Mr. Mackey uncomfortable. He searches for any other outward displays of self-soothing. He tries to pinpoint a cause. He tries to solve the problem. He tries to establish an equation.

“…m’kay, and we have replaced that with the theater course in sixth period.”

Craig’s gaze snaps up from Mr. Mackey’s hands. Craig readjusts his arms, readjusts his legs, and tips his head just slightly to the left. “Why?” he asks. He is amused at Mr. Mackey’s apparent relief. The thumb-rubbing ceases; the tension in Mr. Mackey’s left brow fades.

“M’kay,” Mr. Mackey begins. That’s something he’s comfortable answering; Craig can tell. “Because you’ve been seeming pretty asocial lately Craig, m’kay, and we think enrolling you in theater might help you come out of your shell.”

“I don’t have a shell,” says Craig. Mr. Mackey finds that particular statement interesting. In turn, Craig finds Mr. Mackey’s intrigue by that particular statement interesting.

“Yes you do, Craig, m’kay, and we want to make sure you don’t keep building up that shell.” Mr. Mackey resumes the very tiny, self-soothing action. Craig is entertained by the thought of cracking Mr. Mackey’s anxieties for the second time— though, admittedly, it would be a lie to say he wasn’t slightly annoyed by the repetition. “We don’t want you to lose all your friends and shoot up the school, m’kay.”

“I’m not going to shoot up the school,” Craig says.

“That’s good, m’kay, but we just want to intervene early,” Mr. Mackey states. “It would be bad for you to go buy a gun somehow and come back and commit mass murder, m’kay.”

“I’m not going to shoot up the school,” Craig repeats.

“I’m glad to hear that, m’kay, we just want to make sure everyone stays safe and nothing happens, m’kay.”

The lingering topic discomforts Craig. He wonders, in that moment, if he really gives off that “school shooter” vibe. He genuinely doesn’t know how to feel about that. Again, Craig reiterates, “I am not going to shoot up the school.”

“You’re going to attend that theater class, Craig, m’kay, and that’s final.”

Craig considers pushing, but decides there’s no use arguing a moot point. Doing so would just cross into a boring territory, and he is not interested in jumping into something when he knows it will hold no gratification for himself. “Okay, whatever you say,” he replies.

“M’kay, thanks for coming in,” says Mr. Mackey. Craig stands to leave. “Oh, and Craig?”

“What?”

“You’re on thin ice, m’kay, if you run into any incidents in the future, we may have to implement more severe consequences.”

 **Fun Facts:**  
**I. “more severe consequences” means expulsion**

**II. Craig knows that, and**

**III. he knows it well.**

“We’re only doing this to help you, m’kay,” says Mr. Mackey, “and if you ever need to talk, feel free to come in and talk to me, I’m always here, m’kay, there’s no shame in talking to a counselor.”

Craig notices one interesting fact before he leaves Mr. Mackey’s office.

 **Another fact of interest:**  
**I. Mr. Mackey is bored with his job.**

Craig doesn’t know how to feel about the meeting overall. He’s not thrilled with the outcome. Then again, he doesn’t really give much of a damn. It might make things more interesting, if not just agitate him more.

 **One last fact:**  
**I. Craig Tucker is not a theater kid.**

 

  
**END ACT ONE**  
**“To Understand”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update will be on saturday, january 12.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	8. Intermission

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A SUPERFICIALLY BRIGHT MOUNTAIN - DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy reclines in the grass on top of his mountain. He has been here before, and he will come here again. Although he knows he is not alone, he kind of feels like he is. He can barely feel the presence of his boyfriend, even though he’s sitting right next to him on the mountain.

He cannot keep track of everything he’s saying. His mouth isn’t moving very fast, but the words disappear immediately after he says them. The mountain steals them, swallows them up, takes them into the sky for safekeeping. He understands why the mountain does that, but at the same time, he is a little disappointed that he will never be able to see them again.

He doesn’t speak with his hands, this time. His fingers are still moving, of course, but they do not add anything to what he is saying. The mountain, at this hour, feels cold and lonely. He knows his boyfriend does not feel the same way. He does not know what the mountain looks like to his boyfriend, and he kind of wants to. He sneaks in the phrase, _I wish I could figure you out_ , but he receives no response in the lull that he gives the one-sided conversation.

There is an imagined wind, and he wants only one thing in that moment. He wants his boyfriend to understand exactly what he’s feeling. It’s ridiculous, he knows, and he relates such a knowledge in the way his words tumble. He doubts his boyfriend picks up on it, however, and only finds himself disappointed. The chilling wind on the mountain increases, so the sun dims with a rush of clouds across the sky. The words are clogging up the atmosphere. They are leading him nowhere fast, and the flow is incorrect.

It is with frustration that Tweek allows himself to snap back.

The mountain fades, and in its place, Craig’s bedroom reforms.

Tweek blinks away the sky and the clouds, finding his gaze glued in a distracted stare at Craig’s ceiling. There are little patterns up there, and for a second, he swears he can see faces swirling and forming between the popcorn protrusions. Tweek is laying in Craig’s bed, and Craig lays beside him. Craig has been asleep for at least an hour. Pandora lays on the floor next to the bed. She, too, dozes.

Tweek and Craig had walked home together after school with plans of doing homework and studying. They had not gotten that far, of course. They usually did, but today must have been overwhelming for Craig, because he really needed a break. Pandora wouldn’t leave Craig’s side until he had lain down, and as soon as he was horizontal, he pretty much conked out. Tweek wouldn’t say he is disappointed. He’s just a little bored. He can deal with boredom.

Besides, he understands needing a break. He doesn’t hold it against Craig at all. He’s just happy that he is safe, and that Pandora was able to keep things under control.

Tweek wants to get up. He wants to crouch next to Pandora and give her some rewarding pets, but he cannot move. If he does, he risks waking up Craig, and he doesn’t want to do that.

Before falling asleep, Craig had grabbed Tweek’s hand tightly in his own. He hasn’t let go yet. Tweek is okay with that. In fact, more than anything, he finds it cute. He just wishes Craig would lower his stoic attitude more often when he’s not totally out of it.

Careful not to jostle the bed too much, Tweek rolls onto his side to face Craig. He looks so peaceful when he is asleep. There is no doubt in Tweek’s mind that Craig’s brain is resetting itself for the day to come. The sun is setting just beyond the windowpane, but it’s hidden by the curtains. Tweek will probably spend the night, tonight— Mister and Missus Tucker won’t mind.

Tweek allows himself to shut his eyes and drift in the darkness behind his eyelids. He checks in with himself. Everything feels decent, at least.

He hopes tomorrow will be better for the both of them.

  
**BEGIN ACT TWO**  
**“Rebirth”**


	9. Case Study #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Clyde Donovan

**CASE STUDY #2:**  
**CLYDE DONOVAN**

_Some very important facts about: Clyde Donovan_

_Clyde Donovan is a natural brunette, with brown eyes, and stupidly clear skin (more than likely moisturized). His skin routines are almost painfully girlish. Clyde Donovan takes significant pride in his appearance, and while not bothered by dirt, he is significantly bothered by blemishes of every other sort. Clyde Donovan is shallow like that._

Donovan sits in a bastardized version of the lotus position. His pants are getting dusty on the ground. That is thanks to the dirt and gravel in the alcove behind the school. Craig’s own position is similar; he sits with his legs crossed, his bag (2) a few inches away from his knee (left).

Donovan asks, “so, weed. Do you sell that?”

_Side Note: Clyde Donovan does not beat around the bush, which can be both practical and idiotic._

Craig replies, “no shit, I sell that.”

Donovan rubs his hands together. His breath is visible in the air. It is not a particularly cold day, but the windchill and the actual temperature are two very different things. Craig opens his bag and withdraws his BS and pencil. He also withdraws his bag of weed. One of them, at least. He doesn’t mention the fact that there are multiple. He’s always left it as a little easter egg. If you want the good stuff, you have to ask for the good stuff.

Not a second later, Donovan eyeballs the bag and hums stiffly. He’s back to rubbing his hands together, but this time the motion is slow. He is contemplating. He is calculating. Craig sees it in his eyes. Craig turns to Donovan’s page (pg. 13) in the BS.

Donovan says, “dude, my usual.”

Craig rolls his eyes. He reclines against the back wall of the school, his spine straightening against the bricks. He’s swallowing thickly. He’s still fighting a cold, but he can feel it slowly going away. He taps his pencil against the page (13 times and counting).

Craig tells him, “that is your usual.”

Donovan argues, “no, it isn’t.”

Craig says, “if you want to change it up, fucking say so.”

Donovan pouts.

_Relationship: Clyde Donovan is a regular customer of mine._

Craig jots down some (5) notes inside of his BS. He circles an option, different from his usual, and closes the book with a huff. Craig grabs the first bag of weed. He puts it back in the bag. He pulls out a second. There’s less. It’s a different strain. Donovan likes the look of this one.

Donovan says, “that’s my usual.”

To which Craig answers, “it’s not, and if you smoke it, it’ll feel different.”

Donovan’s eyes narrow. He presses his lips together. He is thinking. Craig doubts that he is thinking very hard, however. The odds of him actually contemplating anything of substance, or interest, to Craig, is highly unlikely. Donovan asks, “how different? In what way?”

Donovan is wary. He’s a wimp. He always has been. More than likely, he always will be. Craig answers, “it’ll be a lot smoother, you’ll probably get bored of it. You might even fall asleep.”

Craig finds that a waste of good drugs, but Donovan is stubborn. Donovan purses his lips. Donovan says, “isn’t all weed that way?”

Craig says, “you’re dumb.”

Donovan replies, “just gimme the weed, dummy.”

Craig wants to spite him. In fact, he wants to do many things, but he does none of them. Donovan is a moron, but he doesn’t deserve to get fucked over. Craig is not a liar. He does not mess around. Craig gives Donovan the weed. Donovan gives Craig the money. Craig packs up and says, “go away.”

Donovan shrugs and leaves.

_Footnote: Clyde Donovan is no longer a crybaby, but the nickname still follows him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early update!  
> there's still an update planned for saturday, too.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	10. Act II Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> East Wing, Room 155.

As a general rule, Craig tried not to think about the theater class before he had to attend it. The most thought he put into it before the first day of second semester included only the following:

 **Craig:**  
**I. would only do what he wanted to do, and**

**II. would skip theater class if it meant keeping his pride.**

His lack of thought, however, only lasts for a limited amount of time. Then it was day one of second semester, and he was coursing through his science courses with no issues, had the same lunch period as his friends, and was thoroughly enjoying the newly-opened aeronautic engineering class. There is only one thing in his way, and that thing is this:

East Wing, Room 155.

Craig prides himself in his knowledge. His brain is full of many random facts about many different things. As much as he hates to admit it, he does not know everything. Among the things Craig does not (or rather, did not) know, is this:

Theater class is held in two rooms. The classroom, and the auditorium.

So far, they have yet to journey to the auditorium.

In fact, so far, Craig has yet to enter the classroom itself.

Craig adjusts his bag, lifting the weight up from his shoulder to help the ache dissipate. He keeps glancing at the placard glued to the door frame. The placard reads as follows:

**E155**

For some reason, Craig expects the placard to change. He expects it to spin into a different room number and say, “oops, never mind, you’re staring at the wrong room”. More logically, though, he expects the counselor or the principal to find him just in the nick of time and let him know he does, in fact, have a free sixth period. Needless to say, that does not happen. The final warning bell rings, and Craig enters the classroom. He sits in the first empty seat he sees. That empty seat just so happens to be at an empty table. The rest of the students, a significant amount of which are painfully obviously freshmen, have huddled themselves in flocks near the windows.

Craig notices a few things about E155.

 **It:**  
**I. has the exact same layout as any other classroom**

**II. does not have desks, and instead has group tables, and**

**III. has all of the tables pushed around the exterior of the room in a circle, leaving the center open for… Craig doesn’t know what.**

Craig does not take off his bag, even as he continues to sit in the room. He trusts no one here. He knows no one here. He goes so far as to say he’s never seen any of these people. Except for the fact that he has. He has studied a few of these people in their natural habitats.

 **Those people include, but are not limited to:**  
**I. Brad**

**II. Butters, and**

**III. Tricia.**

Craig splits those people into groups and categories in his mind. Simply put, he observes.

 **I. Brad:**  
**A. is talking in a large group of people**

**B. has a bruise forming on his left cheek, and**

**C. sits on the surface of a table.**

**II. Butters:**  
**A. is settled on the outskirts of Brad’s group**

**B. does not seem interested in Brad, and**

**C. is sitting on the floor in front of the window with:**

**III. Tricia, who:**  
**A. sits calmly next to Butters**

**B. is listening to Butters talk about something (Craig cannot hear what)**

**C. glares daggers at Craig, and**

**D. has her middle finger pointed proudly in Craig’s direction.**

  
Craig, always the gentleman, returns Tricia’s gesture halfheartedly. Her scowl deepens. Her eyes narrow. Craig becomes quickly bored, however, and averts his gaze from his sister to observe something he doesn’t see every day. Something happens at the door. His attention is quickly withdrawn from the rest of the room. He focuses.

Tweek has entered the room. His hair is messier than usual, and Craig notices that with ease. It’s different from when he last saw Tweek at lunch. Craig does not know how that happened. Admittedly, he is curious.

Craig keeps himself still, curious if Tweek will notice him. Sure enough, Tweek scans the room. His gaze lands on Craig. His eyes widen, and then his brows furrow. He is surprised. Likely, the expression is incredulous. Craig suddenly can’t remember if he brought his scheduling issue up with Tweek. When Tweek approaches and sits next to Craig, that uncertainty is answered.

“What are you doing here?” Tweek asks. Craig pauses, examines, gauges— tilts his head to the left. He does not know if Tweek is happy with him being here.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Craig says. Tweek rolls his eyes. He starts to bounce his leg. Craig can feel the vibration through the table, though he isn’t actually touching it.

“Why would you ask me the same thing? That doesn’t make sense, I have a right to be here, you, on the other hand— ”

“Don’t have a right to be here,” interrupts Craig. Tweek immediately recoils, holding his hands up.

“I didn’t say that!” Tweek argues. “I never said you didn’t have a right to— ”

“Relax, I’m messing with you.”

Butters and Tricia approach. Tweek can feel them before they get there; Craig sees it in the way Tweek shifts and adjusts his posture. His eyes flick over. Butters pulls out a chair for Tricia, who takes the seat begrudgingly. Craig is not expecting that from Butters. He is skeptical. He is tempted to wipe the slate clean. He feels inclined to judge Butters anew.

“Are you dating my fucking sister?” Craig asks. He leans forward. He uncrosses his arms. Butters doesn’t notice.

“No, sir,” says Butters. He sits in the empty seat between Tweek and Tricia. Craig looks him up and down. His studious examination brings up a few facts.

 **Butters:**  
**I. has an open stance**

**II. is smiling like an idiot, and**

**III. is absolutely, undoubtedly, telling the truth.**

Craig backs off. He ignores the look Tweek gave him.

“Isn’t it funny how we’re all in the same class?” Butters says, his smile widening into a grin. He opens his arms wide. “We can be theater buddies! How’s that sound, fellas?”

“I am no one’s theater buddy,” Craig says. Tweek gives him another look. Craig acknowledges this one. “Except for maybe Tweek’s.”

“Think of the practice we can get in after school!” Butters adds excitedly. “We could be one of the best groups in the whole class!”

Craig narrows his eyes at Butters. “I don’t want to be here,” Craig tests. Of course, Butters doesn’t acknowledge that.

“I hope we getta do some improv this year, I love that,” Butters says. Craig finds a couple things interesting.

 **Topics of interest:**  
**I. Butters’ ignorance, and**

**II. The way Tweek tenses at the word “improv”.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update planned for tuesday, january 15th!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	11. Act II Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig can tell.

Craig tries to clear his head before leaving school. He doesn’t tell other people about that, but if it were suddenly necessary for him to explain why, he would probably dismiss it as a separation between Church and State. In a way, that isn’t a lie. The explicit details are just ignored. That is both Craig’s most and least favorite thing.

There are a few distinct things that Craig has noticed about other teenagers, and those few distinct things are what he has based his life around for most of his high school career. For the sake of his sanity, however, Craig ignores those things. He does not have the strength to deal with such vast divides. All in all, he is fucking exhausted.

Tweek follows him out. This doesn’t happen every day, but it’s often enough for it to have become usual. They nestle themselves behind the school, just past the dumpsters that block a subsection of the fenced-in area. At one point, there was a shed in that corner, but that shed has since been torn down in favor of emptiness. Now it is just the dumpsters, an alcove, and fresh air.

“Do you need a break?” Craig asks, already moving to open his bag. Tweek shakes his head, though, and Craig adjusts the action. He plays it off as him simply pushing the bag to the other end of the wall. Tweek tugs his knees up to his chest, his head tipping up to stare at the sky. Craig glances up, too, but does nothing more. Craig spreads his legs out on the ground in front of himself, staring at the ground.

The gravel is displaced. People have been back here recently— and those people were not himself or anyone else in his friend group. Do not ask how Craig knows, because even he hasn’t managed to find out. He just _knows_. There’s something about the way things have been disturbed. Overall, it is undoubtedly a physical thing. Craig does not believe in the incorporeal. He does not believe in spiritual things.

Maybe, in that way, Craig is a bit simpleminded.

“Why are you in theater?” Tweek asks. His expression twitches as he asks that. It isn’t a tic, it’s just an uncategorized facial expression. Craig forces himself to shrug.

“Ask the fucking school,” replies Craig. That is not the answer Tweek wants.

“Is it a scheduling issue?” pries Tweek. “If it’s a scheduling issue, you should definitely bring that up with someone.”

_Is this an example of irony?_

Craig does not expand on this path of the topic. He sniffs back a feeling of being unable to breathe. He wipes his arm over his nose, trying to shield his airways from the cold. He can feel them becoming brittle. Although he knows better, it feels like they will break soon.

“Why are you in the introductory theater class?” Craig asks. Tweek shrugs, but he knows the answer. Craig can tell.

“The school fucked up my credits somehow, so I have to retake the course in order to, like, fulfill the prerequisites of my stupid capstone course,” Tweek mumbles. His explanation is done using only one breath. From a safe distance, Craig admires Tweek.

 **Craig admires:**  
**I. Tweek’s directness**

**II. the way Tweek can say so much with so little air, and**

**III. much, much more (too much to number; too much to name, too much).**

“I hate this school,” says Craig.

“Me, too,” replies Tweek. He scoots himself back against the brick wall behind him. “I can’t wait until college, when I can leave this stupid town and never look back.”

Craig agrees by saying, “this place is full of morons.”

Tweek hums. It is an indistinct noise, but Craig understands the many noises of Tweek. It’s helpful to understand the many noises of Tweek— especially in the times where Tweek can’t speak. It’s important. Softly, Tweek says, “I hate stupid people.”

Craig says nothing, and he can tell that Tweek understands the agreement in his silence.

Admittedly, Craig sometimes wonders how other people are so stupid. It’s an interesting train of thought, but at the same time, it is very isolating. It renews the separation of Church and State, but in a different manner.

Craig feels like State. Everyone else in the world feels like Church. Tweek is the exception to the rule.

Craig hates hating people, but at the same time, he can’t help it. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand why he has to be the way he is. Thinking about other people makes Craig want to hide his face. (But Craig will never admit that to anybody for as long as he lives.)

Sometimes, Craig gets lost in the thoughts of Church and State. He lays awake, wondering. Many of his worst thoughts come from his bedroom.

 **Craig’s bedroom thoughts include, but are not limited to:**  
**I. What do other people think of me?**

**II. How do other people think?**

**III. Do I think differently than everyone else?**

**IV. If I do, will I ever know?**

**V. I don’t want to be different.**

Craig doesn’t spend much time in his bedroom. Childishly, he is afraid of it. He fears being alone the same way his sister fears the dark: irrationally.

“What should I expect?” Craig asks, and the break in the silence makes Tweek move. He doesn’t jump or flinch much anymore, when Craig is the one who breaks the silence. Tweek moves, however, when he is listening. No matter how minuscule the movement, it is there. This time, it is a head turn.

“What?” responds Tweek.

“From the theater class,” Craig answers. “What should I expect from it?”

“Lots of exercises and technical stuff,” Tweek says. “Honestly, it’s pretty logical at first, so I think you might like it— or, grow to like it, at least.”

There are a few other things that Craig admires about Tweek.

 **Those things:**  
**I. the way Tweek understands him, and**

**II. the way Tweek doesn’t realize it.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update on saturday, january 19th
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	12. Act II Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig cannot afford to lose business.

The rest of the week flashes by very quickly. Craig doesn’t fully understand how he managed to get through some of it without discomfort, but he ultimately decides that dwelling on it is the exact _opposite_ of what is good for him. All in all, Craig ignores many things over the following weekend, and instead just focuses on the homework for the classes he actually enjoys taking.

It works, until Monday, when he suddenly realizes they have to do some more quote end quote “in depth” exercises. The first unit is simple: vocals. Craig had no idea, prior to taking a theater class, that there was anything to do with vocals in theater. He supposes, in retrospect, it makes sense. Admittedly, he quite enjoyed the lecture on the technical terms and inner workings of vocal projection, or whatever. But classroom work and lectures was only for the first week, as he soon comes to find.

The _actual_ class starts on week two.

Craig is only vaguely prepared.

Class is in the auditorium on Monday. Prior to this, Craig had prided himself on having only stepped into the auditorium when Tweek was performing in one of the plays the school was directing. His total visits to the auditorium can be counted on half of one hand, overall. Like any other area in the school, Craig knows it like the back of his hand. He has a good memory.

He makes it there early, just to keep his reputation as clean as possible. He doesn’t want to give the school, or any of the staff, any further reason to suspect him for anything— especially when he has no plans on doing anything. At first, it was a little fun to freak them out, but now it’s just annoying. The hall monitors are keeping an eye on him, and so are the teachers that sometimes linger during lunch. He supposes he’s fine as long as they don’t start scoping him out after school, but it’s still unnerving.

Craig cannot afford to lose business.

The second bell rings for passing time, and Craig settles himself in one of the seats furthest from the stage. He pulls out his phone and decides to play Tetris. He doesn’t make it very far before Tweek enters the auditorium. Craig barely pays attention to the game. He is more keen on watching Tweek out of the corner of his eye. Tweek comes up the steps towards him, his head turned toward the ground. Craig turns off his phone in favor of pure observation.

**Tweek:**   
**I. looks flustered**

**II. looks embarrassed, and**

**III. looks ashamed.**

Tweek finally plops his bag down on the floor and sits in the seat next to Craig. As soon as he’s seated, Tweek’s demeanor changes entirely. He perks up, his posture has straightened, and he’s bouncing his leg casually rather than anxiously, like Craig would have thought. The signals Tweek gives off are confusing Craig.

“Babe,” says Craig, trying to get an answer without asking a question. He doesn’t know where to begin. It’s kind of weirding him out. Tweek looks over, his brows raised. He looks happy, but Craig doesn’t know— like, he doesn’t understand— he can’t… which Tweek is he supposed to be paying attention to? The one that walked up, or the one that sits next to him? Craig doesn’t like the expectant look Tweek is giving him, so he tries to avoid talking. “Never mind.”

Tweek understands. And, thank god he does, because Craig sure doesn’t.

Two minutes before class starts, the rest of the students start to clump into the auditorium. They flock towards the stage, dropping their bags in the seats and hoisting themselves onto the rise. They ignore the stairs at either end of the stage completely. Craig both admires them, and hates them, for it.

The bell rings. The teacher is late. Craig can’t tell how he’s supposed to feel about that, so he decides not to question it. He takes note of his absence and keeps it in the back of his brain, filed away for possible use later. Tweek grabs Craig’s hand and pulls him out of his chair. He follows as he’s dragged up onto the stage, which he rapidly comes to understand is not his favorite place. Tweek lets go of Craig’s hand. Craig shoves his hands into his pockets.

Craig stares out, squinting in the bright lights that hang from the edges of the ceiling. The seats are empty and daunting. It is dark, it is eerie, and even though he can hear every single person around him talking about crap he couldn’t give less of a damn about, it’s utterly quiet.

It is then, there, and in that moment, that Craig realizes he needs to get the fuck out of there. He’s about to bolt, but before he can, Tweek claps a hand on his shoulder and hovers beside him. He is trapped, enthralled in this aura that Tweek gives off. Tweek is oozing confidence, beaming as he stares into the exact same terror that Craig is seeing.

Tweek does not see the terror, though. Tweek sees the freedom.

“So, what’s it feel like?” Tweek asks.

“Like I’m about to die,” Craig answers. Tweek looks over. That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. But then Tweek snorts a little laugh, and he drops his hand from Craig’s shoulder down to his hand. Tweek pulls Craig’s hand out of his pocket. Tweek laces his fingers with Craig’s. Craig cannot tell if he’s being genuine or not, but he squeezes Tweek’s hand nonetheless.

“I’m not gonna let you die, man,” Tweek tells him.

“I know, it just feels kind of like I’m going to die.”

“You’re kinda sucking the beauty out of this moment.”

“Yep.”

Tweek laughs. Craig smiles.

The auditorium door bursts open, and their theater teacher comes in with a clipboard in hand.

“Circle up, everyone, it’s time for trust exercises!” exclaims the theater teacher. Craig did not bother to remember his name.

“Okay, fuck that, I’m dipping,” Craig says. He pulls away from Tweek. Correction: he tries to pull away from Tweek. Tweek’s hold on his hand is unrelenting.

“You’re staying right here,” Tweek states.

“But I don’t want to.”

“You’re staying.”

“But— ”

“You’re staying.”

**A note for later:**   
**I. Tweek is almost always right.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update on tuesday, january 22!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	13. Act II Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig is not surprised.

By the time school is over, Craig’s skin still tingles from the trust exercises. They weren’t anything extremely out of the ordinary, but they were definitely uncomfortable for Craig. He is not a fan of physical contact, and in theater, there is apparently quite a bit of that. The list of things he despises about the class is slowly growing. It’s beginning to stress him out, but he doesn’t really want to admit that. There are a few things about Craig Tucker that even _he_ hates to acknowledge.

 **Those things are:**  
**I. unavailable**

**II. secret, and**

**III. purely confidential.**

Craig went to the back of the school at first, though after roughly five minutes of lingering, he gave up. His usuals did not show up, and his usuals were always on time. They made certain of that, especially when Craig got on their asses about being consistent. The multiple no-shows he’s had recently are tipping him off to his worst fear. The students are suspicious of the security of Craig’s deals. They’re going to start dropping him in favor of saving their own hides— and, in the process, they’re fucking him over.

 **Again:**  
**I. Craig cannot afford to lose business.**

Ultimately, though, he understands.

Tweek did not follow him out today. He’s staying after for the auditions of some play the theater department is directing. Craig did not offer to stay. Even though he kind of wants to, he can’t. He can feel a headache coming on, and if he wants to avoid a migraine, he’s going to have to rest as soon as possible. That is yet another reason why he is not staying for people who are late.

Craig, hoisting his bag further up on his shoulder, tries to ignore the pressure building up in the front of his head. He ducks through a well-camouflaged hole in the chain link fence and circles the side of the school instead of going back in. The fluorescent lights in there fuck with his eyes, and that’s the last thing he needs. Besides, the fresh air and natural light help make him feel a little less shitty.

He contemplates taking the slightly-scenic route around to the sidewalk, but ultimately decides against. He can’t bring himself to give a damn about that. The only thing he gives a damn about right now is napping on the living room floor with Pandora. Craig pulls his phone out of his pocket to distract himself with one of his stupid mobile games. He knows the colors are bad for his headaches, but he can’t help it. They’re fun, and mind-numbing in a way that helps him think. He taps to Tetris and manages a few moves. Too suddenly, he is aware of the distinct mumbling of two people ahead of him. Craig glances up only because he is curious, and is rather intrigued when he sees who he’s unintentionally following.

 **The people ahead of him are:**  
**I. Kyle Broflovski, and**

**II. Stan Marsh.**

Automatically, Craig stops. He’s a solid distance away from them, so he can’t pick up any conversation topics, but Stan is holding a piece of paper, and Kyle looks mad. Craig is not surprised.

 **According to Craig’s research, Kyle is:**  
**I. intelligent**

**II. stubborn, and**

**III. the stereotype of a hotheaded ginger.**

**Comparatively, Stan is:**  
**I. a bit dumber**

**II. gullible, and**

**III. kind of a pussy.**

Craig glances both ways down the street, and then crosses. He walks quickly, and only relaxes when he’s gotten to the other side without issue. Furthermore, he is relieved that Stan and Kyle are still talking. They haven’t moved much. In fact, they’re just standing there, staring at each other.

It is with narrowed eyes and a simple plan that Craig lifts his phone, adjusts himself next to a stop sign for the perfect angle, and snaps a picture of them.

In this moment, Craig notices a few different things.

 **Craig notices:**  
**I. Kyle has straightened up**

**II. Stan is blushing, and**

**III. they’re in love.**

**(IV. but they’re too stupid to realize it.)**

Just to be safe, Craig takes one more picture. The plan he thought of is borderline ridiculous, but it is a plan nonetheless. Something Craig has discovered over the few years of his life, is that you do not need to have a particularly good plan to succeed. As long as you have a plan, it’s enough.

Craig does not linger long enough to look at the pictures. He immediately shoves his phone into his pocket, and casually continues down the sidewalk towards his house. He does not linger on the thoughts of his plan. He does not linger on anything, other than the feeling of the cement beneath his shoes as he descends down a mild slope. For a second, he is anxious, but the anxiety is overridden by his confidence.

He was not caught. They have no idea he was there, and of that, he is certain.

Something about the event intrigues Craig, however, and he cannot, in good conscience, say that he does not try to solve the riddle that is the thing he’s discovered. Admittedly, he doesn’t know why exactly he’s so interested by this. It could be because he knows a few select things as indisputable fact.

 **Just a few of those indisputable facts:**  
**I. Kyle is one of the cleanest people in the school, and**

**II. Stan is still dating Wendy.**

Ultimately, he decides the following:

It’s a secret. That is more interesting than anything he’s come into contact with in a decently long time.

Craig Tucker has found his next puzzle.

That puzzle is Stan Marsh.

He will admit, maybe it’s a little low of him to perceive his peers in such a shallow fashion, but he doesn’t feel very bad about it. There is no game as fun as the way other people’s brains work.

“Side note,” Craig mutters, pursing his lips momentarily as he ponders. “This is going to be fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update will be on saturday, 26th of january!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	14. Act II Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan does not move.

“— Craig, are you even listening?”

Craig is listening. Simultaneously, he is much too busy focusing on the school’s entrance sidewalk. So, basically, he is only listening in the way his brain forces him to— not in a way that he actually wants to be. He’s not enthralled with the conversation. It bores him. To display this, he lifts his hand and flips off his friend group. He knows Clyde has started pouting.

“Dude, mean,” says Clyde. Craig finds the vocabulary of Clyde Donovan to be amusing.

 **The vocabulary of Clyde Donovan:**  
**I. “mean”**

**II. “YOLO”, and**

**III. “swag”.**

Clyde stands from his spot on the picnic bench and lunges over the top of the table. Craig does not move, even when Clyde is sitting much too close to him for comfort. Craig slides himself a little further away, digging his heels onto the bench he’s supposed to be sitting on. Craig hates sitting on bench seats, though, so he rebels by sitting on the table space.

Clyde hovers behind Craig, sitting on his knees. Then, he leans, digging his chin into Craig’s left shoulder. Clyde smells like barbecue chips and ocean mist conditioner. It aggravates Craig’s nose. He can feel it breaking into his head. Craig’s eyes narrow without him telling them to. There are some physical expressions that he hasn’t gotten complete control over yet. Simply, Craig says, “go away.”

He hears Clyde sputter. He sounds almost insulted as he says, “bro, you’re the one who came over to us.”

“I did,” Craig says. “But you know what I didn’t do? Shove your bony face into my shoulder. Go away.”

“Clyde, just get off of him,” Token says, rolling his eyes. He’s sitting backwards on the bench seat Clyde used to be sitting in. There is some sort of energy drink in his left hand. He complains about how shit it is all the time, but he still continues to drink it. Craig hasn’t put much time into cracking the case of Token— and that is mostly because he’s not hard to understand.

 **Token’s values are:**  
**I. keeping people happy**

**II. being knowledgeable, and**

**III. fitting in.**

In many ways, Token is more interested in _understanding_ than in _being understood_. Craig wonders, sometimes, if that’s why they get along so well.

“No, I will not get off of him, not until he apologizes.” Craig can feel each and every minuscule adjustment of Clyde’s jaw as he speaks. The sensation is unpleasant. Correction: the sensation is painful.

“Go away,” Craig repeats. Clyde, stubborn in an ignoramus sort of way, only digs his chin into Craig’s shoulder harder. At some point, though, he slips; Clyde’s chin hits something tender near Craig’s clavicle. Craig flinches away. Swiftly, he pushes Clyde off and hops down from the picnic table. Clyde, of course, finds the reaction to be the most amusing thing he’s ever seen. He laughs.

“Wuh! Did you see that?” proclaims Clyde, on all fours on the picnic table. He scrabbles backwards, slowly lowering himself back to his seat. “Craig flinched! You know what that means, Token?”

Token heaves an exasperated sigh. “No, Clyde. What does it mean?”

Clyde pumps his fists in the air and shouts, “Craig is not a robot!”

Craig stares longingly towards the parking lot, where his car is currently parked. He wants nothing more than to skip. He very well could skip, in fact; the only thing stopping him is the looming threat of expulsion.

Token and Clyde are back to talking. They say something about robots and artificial intelligence, and Craig finds the topic interesting. He wants to contribute somehow, but sudden movement overtakes his visual attention. He is not surprised when he sees Kyle dart angrily into the school. He is also not surprised when Stan stumbles over to a tree, gasping and out of breath. Craig is surprised by very few things. This situation simply piques his interest— and furthers his suspicions. Craig notices three things.

 **Stan:**  
**I. slings his backpack off of his shoulder**

**II. crouches to unzip it, and**

**III. pulls out an inhaler.**

Craig says nothing as he leaves his friends, and he is thankful for the fact that they do not pay him any mind. Craig does not stop walking until he is immediately behind Stan’s shoulder. When Stan does not notice, Craig hits Stan’s shoulder firmly. That grabs Stan’s attention. Stan glances up. In a matter of seconds, he shoves his inhaler back into his bag and stands to face Craig.

There is something in Stan’s expression. Craig studies it. He doubts he’s ever seen it before, because he can’t match it to anything in his memory. Stan keeps glancing at Craig’s messenger bag. It’s simple. It’s calm. It’s curious. Stan’s expression changes.

“Hey— ” but his voice runs out. He starts to cough. Craig would back up, if he held any assumptions that Stan would be contagious, but Craig knows for a fact that Stan is not sick.

**Fun fact: Stan is asthmatic.**

Stan pulls the collar of his shirt up and over his nose.

**Another fun fact: Stan’s asthma is triggered by cold— and logically, dry— air.**

“—you need something?” Stan finally finishes. His voice is little more than a mumble beneath the fabric. Craig can hear him loud and clear.

“I don’t need anything, but you might,” Craig replies.

Stan lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

Craig reaches into his messenger bag to pull out his phone. He closes the Tetris app— which, apparently, he’d previously forgotten to do— and swipes to his photo gallery. He taps on the photo he needs, glances at Stan’s wary expression, and then hands Stan his phone.

Stan does not move.

“Go ahead,” Craig prompts. “Take a look.”

Stan gives in. As he takes the phone, he says, “this better not scar me for life.”

Stan only squints, at first, and Craig knows that’s because of the sun’s glare. In a matter of seconds, however, that changes. The look on Stan’s face when he sees the picture is priceless.

“Motherfucker,” Stan growls at him. Craig sees Stan’s grip tighten on his phone. Craig, unwilling to deal with a broken cell, takes it back. He turns it off and pushes it into his pocket.

“That’s not the only one, either,” Craig says. He is bluffing, but Stan is too distressed to realize that. His plan is going smoothly, so far. This is exactly the reaction Craig was looking for. He finds pride in that. “You two have so much sexual tension, it’s out of this world.”

“What the fuck?” hisses Stan. “That’s fucked up. You’re fucked up. Are you a stalker, or some shit?”

Craig is not a stalker, though the idea is intriguing, nonetheless. “No, I just happen to be in the right place at the right time— or, wrong place and wrong time, from your perspective…” and now, he just has to… “Aren’t you still dating Wendy?”

Stan gapes like a fish. His collar his still over his mouth, but Craig can see the tension in the rest of his face. He is, undeniably, shocked.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Craig says. He rolls his shoulders, trying to urge away the phantom feeling of Clyde’s chin on his trapezius muscle. “Interesting. Look, I’m not here to incriminate you. Honestly, I’m just here to offer you some shit to help you feel better.”

“Feel better?” sputters Stan. He drops his shirt. Craig can see his mouth, now. “Feel better?”

“Duh. Relationship issues can make people feel crappy. Trust me, I know. I’ve been there.” But Craig does not want to linger on that. He shakes his head free of his own puzzles. “But I got something that’ll help take the edge off of that unhappy relationship. So, want some shit?”

Stan opens his mouth. Stan closes his mouth. Stan opens it again and asks, “are you asking me if I want drugs?”

Craig ignores the urge to wince. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t so loud, but. Yep. So. Deal?”

“No,” Stan snaps. “Fuck off.”

Craig is expecting this. He’s established a background for every possible outcome, and this is one of the more likely ones. Who in their right mind would just say “yes” on the first ask? No one. It takes a certain mindset to want to mess with drugs. Craig knows that.

So, Craig has to implement that mindset. He has to set the ball rolling. Craig does not care much for Stan. He just wants to get the money. Craig steels himself in the face of his goals.

“Huh,” Craig fakes, as if he hasn’t thought this out. He goes the extra mile, and cocks his head to the side. “Wasn’t expecting that. Then again, I wasn’t expecting you to be gay. Though, Wendy is kinda butch. She’d be really hot as a guy, don’t you think? Maybe you’d be more attracted to her if she had a— ”

It happens in a matter of seconds, but that is all Craig needs to observe.

 **Craig’s observations:**  
**I. Stan’s eyes are flaming**

**II. Craig misread the situation, and**

**III. Stan hits like a fucking girl.**

  
**END ACT TWO**  
**“Rebirth”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update on tuesday, january 29th
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	15. Intermission II

**FADE IN**

**EXT. A STRANGELY UNIFORM MOUNTAIN - DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy cannot draw his eyes away from the beautiful fields of the mountain. They roll in little trenches as far as the eye can see, eventually reaching a crescendo at the highest center. This mountain is not like the other mountains; it keeps its top neat without the interference of man. It is in that moment that he decides he has never seen anything so beautiful, and he will never see anything quite as beautiful. It’s a type of beauty that will only last so long as no one touches it.

In one such divot of the mountain, there is a collection of pebbles and rocks. It’s gravel, in a way, but organic. It, like everything else on the mountain, has a story— and he wants to explain one such story. The pebbles are not the topic of interest today, however, and he knows that. He knows it, and he knows it well. He knows it so well. He knows it better than he knows the mountain, and he knows the mountain better than his body. He knows the mountain better than his head.

The topic of interest today is the tree just to the left of that drop of pebbles. The pebbles circle the trunk of the tree in a crescent, absorbing the creeks and brooks that want to become true on the mountain. This tree, this topic of interest— it is a willow, with long arms that sweep from the heights and plunge to the gravel. Even the gentlest of winds blow them in swift curtains of green. Similarly, or perhaps, contrarily, the harshest winds are too weak to ruin the currents of vines.

He makes it his mission to divulge his boyfriend in the calmness of this willow. He will allow this mountain to become _the_ mountain— he will allow his mountain to become _their_ mountain. There is no one he trusts more.

But the builders will come, soon. They will overtake the mountain and explore its fields. They will rip the rocks from the grasses and destroy the natural gardens. They are the enemy. They are the nightmare. They are _They_ , and _They_ are evil.

 _They_ are evil.

 _They_ are evil.

 _They_ are _evil_.

 _They_ will rip up the tree like it is nothing from the soil and sod, _They_ will evict the mountain of its beauty, _They_ will ruin and sully and expend it of its resources, _They_ will do so much in so little time, with such simple actions, with such normal faces, with such organic machines and

He

Is afraid

Of _They_

Buthecandonothingtostop _They_ ,canhe?

_Snap._

Craig’s room surrounds Tweek. Craig is watching.

Tweek’s stomach sinks like a stone and he does the only thing he feels safe doing. He can barely keep track of his feet as he runs, slamming Craig’s bedroom door open and wondering, very distantly, where his coat is. His elbow smacks against the banister as he descends the stairs. The stone of his stomach ascends in his throat, and his legs force him instead towards the bathroom.

He doesn’t know how, but he makes it. He drops to his knees before the toilet and stares into the bowl for what feels like significantly too long. He wonders if it was a false alarm, wonders if he’s really sure of his body, anymore. He craves the mountain, wants it back, but when he tries, he just sees the builders and the tree being cut down. Tweek throws up into the toilet, his elbow throbbing in the way it does after he hits the bone wrong, shaking like a pathetic dog and holding back tears and he is, he is, _he is—_

Craig comes in. He does not stare. He sits behind Tweek, reaches up, smooths Tweek’s hair and gently rubs Tweek’s back. His whisper is quiet; softer than anything Tweek thinks he should be able to hear.

“It’s okay, honey,” Craig tells him, like this is normal. Like this is _normal_. But there’s something more in that voice, too. There’s something grounding. Something sweet. Tweek has long since finished vomiting, but Craig still lingers in his soothing touches and whispers of, “Let it out, just let it out, it’s okay.”

It becomes easier to breathe, but Tweek’s slowly calming demeanor does something. He doesn’t know what it does, but it does _something_. It shows in the way that Craig stands and leaves the bathroom. And suddenly, Tweek is alone, with a burning throat and a terrible terrible terrible ache of doom in his chest. Tweek grabs a tissue and wipes his mouth, flushes, tries to tell himself he can handle this, he can handle being alone, he can— he can— he can— he _can’t_ —

Craig comes back with Pandora, his fingers looped gingerly in her collar. He says nothing. He sits down next to Tweek, with the golden retriever between them, and gently pats Pandora’s back. He points to Tweek and says, “Soothe.”

Pandora nudges against Tweek’s chest, and doesn’t let up until she can crawl onto his lap. The pressure is nice. The pressure is calming. The pressure is soothing.

Tweek…

is okay.

  
**BEGIN ACT THREE**  
**“Economic Lessons”**


	16. Case Study #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more important facts about: Kenny McCormick

**Case Study #3**  
**KENNETH “KENNY” MCCORMICK**

_Some more important facts about: Kenny McCormick_

_Kenny McCormick is kind, considerate, and one of the most philanthropic people in South Park. Most people don’t notice. Kenny McCormick keeps himself safe with a defense mechanism of perversion, but he is good at keeping it natural and making people think he’s just overly sexual. Kenny McCormick is interesting like that._

Craig does not often go to McCormick’s. He can count the amount of times he’s seen McCormick’s house on one hand with room to spare (3). Craig does not care about the fact that McCormick is poor, he just likes to be in familiar surroundings.

McCormick is sitting on a crate that’s been flipped upside down. A magazine used to lay on it, but the magazine is now discarded on the floor. It is flipped open to (pg. 9) a particularly raunchy picture of a woman on a deep red motorcycle. McCormick pretends it isn’t there. Craig does, too. The only person miffed by the magazine is Stotch, who won’t stop staring at it with furrowed brows and a tilted head.

_Side note: Kenny McCormick has a soft spot for Leopold “Butters” Stotch, and often has him over._

Craig is not happy with the fact that Stotch is here. McCormick refused to give in to Craig’s comforts, though, so he will have to deal with it.

McCormick asks, “Do you want the usual?”

Craig does not take out his BS. He does not move at all, in fact. He simply sits, his back against McCormick’s mattress, with his bag in his lap. Craig says, “Yeah, just the usual.”

McCormick nods. He stands from the crate and kicks it aside with his foot (left). Stotch looks over at the noise, finally distracted from the magazine. Craig doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but one thing is certain, and that certain thing is this:

This is not Stotch’s business yet.

(The look on Stotch’s face reads it will be, soon.)

McCormick opens his closet and exits through a hole in the back. Craig has seen him do this a few (3) times, but he has not yet followed him. He does not want to follow him. He does not really care about what McCormick does when no one is there to see.

_Relationship: Kenny McCormick is a friend of mine._

With McCormick gone, Stotch turns his attention to Craig. Craig turns his attention to Stotch. They stare at each other, waiting for something to happen. Craig knows better than Stotch, however, and implements an action just to keep the ball rolling. Craig flips Stotch off.

To his surprise, Stotch flips him off right back.

Craig says, “You’re dumb.”

Stotch smiles politely. Stotch says, “I know.”

Craig finds Stotch interesting. Craig rests his elbow on his knee, and rests his chin in his palm. He only has one question left. Craig asks, “Who are you?”

Stotch replies, “I’m Butters, that’s me.”

Craig repeats, “No, who are you?”

Something in Stotch’s expression shifts. Craig cannot pinpoint the meaning behind it. Stotch says simply, “‘I’m nobody! Who are you?’”

Another question pops up. Craig asks, “You like poetry?”

Stotch stays silent to that. The smile on his face twitches. It looks more genuine. Craig takes note of that. It will be useful later.

McCormick comes back a few (10) minutes later. He scrabbles out of the closet with a dirty grocery bag in his hand (left). He walks over and hands the dirty grocery bag to Craig, who takes it without complaint. Craig opens his messenger bag and pushes the grocery bag inside. He buckles his messenger bag.

McCormick grabs the crate, puts it back where it was before, and sits on it again. Stotch is back to staring at the magazine. Craig is back to not moving.

Suddenly, Stotch pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps the bottom, tugs one out, and presses it between his teeth. He puts the open pack on the magazine. He says, “If either of you fellas wants one, feel free.”

Craig doesn’t hesitate to grab one. Upon closer inspection of the magazine page, he sees that the woman is mid-puff of smoke. In her hand (left) is a cigar.

Craig asks, “You got a light?”

McCormick supplies the lighter. Stotch lights his, first. Craig’s turn is second. McCormick does not take a cigarette.

McCormick says, “That’s an expensive brand.”

Craig is thinking the same thing.

_Footnote: Kenny McCormick and I have a lot in common._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poem: "I'm nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson.   
> next update on thursday, january 31st
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	17. Act III Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t give Craig a choice.

The universe is a very big, very expansive place. Maybe the bigness is the thing that attracts Craig so much to it; maybe it’s his affinity for rules, and the way he enjoys structure. Whatever it is, it is special to him. He likes the fact that, no matter what, no one will be able to take the universe away from him. In a limited way, he is the universe. He is his universe, at least, and that thought makes him feel a little less alone.

Thoughts like this also help him through the boredom that stems from getting scolded. Not that he’s necessarily getting scolded right now— because he isn’t. He was, however, pulled to the principal’s office quite sharply by one of the staff members of South Park High. He’s seen her face before. In fact, he’s pretty sure the woman who pulled him to the principal’s was one of the six secretaries that work in this school. He doesn’t know her name, but she looks like a Janet, so he dubs her as such.

Janet points a sharp index finger towards the row of plastic chairs just outside the office door. Craig sits down in one of them, which appeases her to some extent. Janet, in all her middle-aged desk-job glory, tells him haughtily to _wait there until the principal sees you_. Then, she turns on her heel and enters the office without looking back.

**Craig:**  
**I. doesn’t like the way Janet’s face looks**

**II. knows Janet has some personal issues, and**

**III. thinks Janet probably hates teenagers.**

It is there, in the uncomfortable plastic chair, that Craig allows himself to delve into the thoughts of space. Just as much, it is there that he comes to a few different realizations.

**Craig:**  
**I. has cold cheeks**

**II. snow on his sleeves, and**

**III. a slowly bleeding nose.**

The realization he finds most troublesome is his bloody nose. He can feel it, warm and aching with his airways, and he knows he has to stem the flow somehow if he doesn’t want to look like something out of some horror movie or something that Craig doesn’t care enough about to actively reference. He is in a predicament. He does not have any tissues on his person, nor does he want to use his sleeve. His hand is an option, but he would rather not incriminate himself further by bloodying his fingers. Stan may have started it, and Craig wasn’t technically the one who finished it, but he did land twice as many hits on Stan than Stan landed on him.

There is a very small trickle of blood coming from his nose, and he can feel it approaching his top lip. He’s running out of time to figure this shit out before he’s tasting it.

**Fun Fact: Blood tastes pretty fucking bad.**

Craig glances around the hallway. It’s empty, save for himself and a couple of stray freshmen in the midst of their rebellious “I’m a teenager and I know everything” phase.

**Thankfully, Craig:**  
**I. never went through that phase**

**II. except for the fact that he did, and**

**III. he was an insufferable cock.**

A single drop of blood falls onto Craig’s sweater sleeve, which is kind of nasty, but it gives him the push he needs to finally do something about it. He reaches up and wipes the blood away from his nose using the back of his hand. That, too, is kind of nasty, but at least his skin won’t stain like fabric does. He will just have to hide the blood with his sleeves. Decidedly, Craig crosses his arms over his chest and leans his head back against the wall to try and stop the blood.

He closes his eyes. It feels like only a few seconds, but he knows it is much longer. When he opens them again, he is greeted with a scene he never thought he’d be intrigued by.

**Craig sees:**  
**I. Wendy**

**I. Wendy:**  
**A. holds a backpack in her right hand and**

**B. holds a hall pass in her left.**

**Furthermore, Wendy:**  
**I. is scowling at Craig**

**II. has a blush of cold on her cheeks, and**

**III. is asking him a question.**

“Where is Stan?”

“Dunno,” Craig answers. This only serves to piss her off. She shifts her posture, anchoring her weight on her right foot.

“I’m serious, Craig Tucker!” she says, leaning forward. Craig isn’t threatened by Wendy, however, and doesn’t flinch in the way she probably wants him to. Her grip on the backpack tightens. Again, she asks, “Where is Stan?”

And, again, Craig replies, “Dunno.”

Abruptly, Wendy drops the backpack at Craig’s feet and crosses her arms over her chest. Her head is cocked, and her scowl has not left.

**Wendy either:**  
**I. doesn’t believe Craig, or**

**II. doesn’t want to.**

“If I find out you’re lying, I’m not afraid to take action.” Wendy leaves the threat at that. If Craig were a dick, he would tell the principal about her threat. He is not a dick, however, and doesn’t really give a shit about what Wendy does. As long as she keeps her wrath to him and him alone, Craig doesn’t care.

The next thing she does is point. Straight down, right at the backpack she’d left at Craig’s feet. Craig affords her the kindness of glancing towards the bag in reference.

**The backpack is:**  
**I. grey**

**II. falling apart, and**

**III. Stan’s.**

“Keep an eye on that for me,” Wendy says. She doesn’t give Craig a choice. Craig likes that about Wendy; she’s firm and bossy. “If Stan comes by, don’t give it to him. I want to talk to him before he leaves.”

And Craig, quite intrigued by their relationship dynamic, asks, “How do you know he hasn’t left already?”

Wendy gives up a very important piece of information. With a stiff expression, she states, “Stan never goes anywhere without his backpack.”

Craig takes note of that.

Wendy’s posture droops. She lowers her head, closes her eyes, and sighs deeply. When she straightens up again, she does so with forced aggression. “Please,” she says. Craig expects something more substantial, but he gets nothing. She runs her fingers over her ponytail. She’s strained. Craig can see it.

**Wendy:**  
**I. knows something is going on, but**

**II. doesn’t know what.**

“Your nose is bleeding,” Wendy says quietly. Craig doesn’t reply. He is almost surprised when she crouches down in front of Stan’s backpack and withdraws a small travel pack of tissues from the front pocket. She zips it back up and holds it out to Craig. Craig doesn’t move a muscle. Wendy sighs again. “Just take it, Stan doesn’t use them, anyway.”

“Thief,” Craig accuses, but the threat has no weight. He takes the pack of tissues and pulls one out. He holds it to his nose to clear the blood from it. That satisfies Wendy.

“Thank you,” she says.

“I didn’t do anything,” Craig replies, just to be difficult.

“You have,” Wendy counters. “Trust me, you have.”

And then she leaves.

**Craig is grateful for:**  
**I. the tissues**

**II. the backpack, and**

**III. the trust.**

Craig sits there for almost another hour before something new happens. His phone buzzes. He feels it in his pocket. He withdraws it.

LOVE  
  
**Today** 08:44  
Fuidosong jeisb  
  
Wherevvvvvvvb???  
  
DAMMIT  
  
I MEAN WHERE.  
  
Sorry caps lock  
  


It’s dumb, but Craig smiles. 

LOVE  
  
its ok im outside of the principals office, babe  
  
Oh  
  
Wait wHy what’d you do this timev?  
  
FUCKING HATE MY PHONE BS ARE STUPID FUCkK  
  
do not worry abt it everything is fine, honey  
  
can u pick up my bag plz ill leave it outside, dear  
  
He ok  
  
He ok  
  
DAMMIT  
  
YES OKAY  
  
thank u, love  
  
Kwjfjdksodj  
  
DONT CALL ME THAT IRS WEIRD  
  
yes the irs is weird, hon  
  
NO NOT THIS AGAIN IT WAS A TUPO A THPO  
  
love u, sweetie  
  
////////////  
  
<3  
  
<3  
  


**The irony:**  
**I. Craig hates idiots, but**

**II. Tweek makes him stupid.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update for today!  
> next update still planned for thursday, january 31st.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	18. Act III Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is ringing in Craig’s ears.

Craig is good at ignoring loneliness. It’s a skill he’s acquired over the years. There are downsides to this, however, and those issues are surprisingly common.

 **These issues:**  
**I. Craig feels out of place**

**II. Craig feels unfulfilled, and**

**III. Craig now finds people annoying.**

The annoyance factor comes into play more often than the other two, and he has yet to find a remedy for it. He has found that ignoring people works fairly well, though. It might be rude, but it helps keep him from flipping people off all day. He is typically calm, as long as no one talks to him.

**Fun fact: Craig doesn’t like that about himself.**

So, when Stan walks up with an overwhelming amount of hesitance in his step, Craig simply pushes his presence out of his thoughts. He likens the experience to one of the psychology classes he took a while ago. He remembers a lesson on object permanence. Out of sight, out of mind. Craig failed that class, but that’s not because he didn’t understand it. It’s because he didn’t give enough of a damn to turn in that stupid objective study final.

It didn’t help him understand anything about the way his own brain works, which ultimately made him feel like the class was asinine.

Stan is the one who speaks first. The tone in his voice gives Craig the knowledge that he spoke out of fear of silence. “I’m sorry,” Stan says. He waits for an answer from Craig, but Craig isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say, so he stays silent. Stan continues, “For punching you, I mean… y’know, in the face.”

Now _that_ Craig can work with. “It’s fine. Unlike you, I’m not vain. A little bruise or two isn’t going to ruin my life.”

Stan sputters. Something in Craig’s brain clicks. He decides to experiment.

“Besides,” Craig adds, lengthening himself in his chair to get more comfortable. He rolls his shoulders. An ache radiates from his back. He must have turned wrong. He reroutes himself. “I’d be pretty damn pissed if I were a cheater, too.”

Nothing.

Craig looks at Stan.

Still nothing.

“Wooow, the vanity remark gets to you, but the jab at your fidelity doesn’t? You’ve got some messed up morals.”

Stan scoffs. “Yeah, I have messed up morals. Do you know how ridiculous that is, coming from the sixteen-year-old drug dealer?”

_Say it louder, why don't you._

“Seventeen, actually,” Craig corrects. “We’re the same age.”

Stan wants the last word. “Are we now? Could’ve fooled me.”

Then again, so does Craig. “You’re dumb.”

Blissful quiet. Craig settles back into himself, and lets everything just exist. He’s just about to reconstruct the pattern of stars he saw in the sky last night, but of course, Stan has to keep being dumb. Craig rolls his eyes when he feels his chair move. Stan is trying very hard to retrieve his backpack, and he’s failing. It is funny. Craig looks up.

“Jesus Christ,” Stan mumbles. They make eye contact. “What, did you super glue this thing?

“No, you’re just dumb.”

“Yeah, yeah, we already established that— can I have my backpack now?”

“No.”

“Seriously?” Stan is getting angry, now. “How are you even keeping it in place? You’re not touching it!”

**Fun Fact: After Wendy left, Craig had hooked one of the arm straps around the leg of his chair.**

Craig can feel a sneeze coming on. He sniffs and rubs his nose, trying to keep it at bay. “I’m not telling you.”

“Dick.”

_Whatever. Have the last word._

Craig turns away.

Stan threatens Craig with his biology textbook, but he’s too stupid to actually take it out of his backpack and do something about it. More likely, however, Stan cares too much about being expelled. That makes Stan smart. Craig gives him credit for that, and indulges in the stupid banter Stan induces.

Craig tries again to convince Stan, but it’s mostly for show. He tries not to make a habit of crossing lines with other people. He only pushes Stan’s buttons because he knows he can.

 **Stan:**  
**I. is too stubborn to crack, but**

**II. is too dumb to shut up, and**

**III. has a not-so-private private life.**

**Fun Fact: Stan was kicked off of the football team in freshman year for marijuana use.**

It’s another couple of minutes before Stan stops talking. When he finally does, Craig returns to his vaguely-meditative state. Their conversation had been utterly menial, really; Craig pretends it didn’t happen. He goes the extra mile and tugs the front of his hat over his eyes. The lights disturb his peace. They give him headaches, too, and he doesn’t want to deal with one.

Wendy shows up an hour too late, in Craig’s opinion. He tries not to listen to the couple as they bicker. He only picks up on their tones. Wendy is simply worried, and she fights because she cares. Stan, on the other hand, is a different story. When Wendy asks what happened to him, Stan freezes. It’s ridiculous.

“Note to self, don’t badmouth Wendy in front of her feral boyfriend,” Craig says. He is defending Stan, but he doesn’t really understand why. He doesn’t really give a shit about the guy. They don’t give a shit about each other.

Craig chalks it up to pity.

He turns the outside world off for a bit. When he’s back, Wendy is telling him, “You can give it back to him now.”

He hesitates. He is frustrated, with himself and Stan and Wendy and stupid Janet the Secretary, and he can’t exactly figure it out. He isn’t used to being lost like this.

He eventually manages to return the backpack to Stan, but he does so in obvious agitation. Craig returns to his seat and covers his eyes with his hat again. He imagines the sun. It grounds him.

 **More facts, conjured by the argument:**  
**I. Stan hasn’t been popular since his football days**

**II. Stan still cares about his public image, and**

**III. Stan is depressed.**

It hits him a little suddenly, and Craig tries to shut off the information his brain is receiving. It doesn’t work. He can’t ignore the words, and he can’t ignore the facts. His ears listen when the rest of him does not want to. All he can do is pretend, and Craig is not a good actor.

 **Too many facts, conjured by the argument:**  
**I. Stan is annoyed**

**II. Wendy is desperate, and**

**III. Craig is being addressed again.**

“I was just told that my boyfriend got beat up by an apathetic drug dealer—” Wendy cuts off. “No offense, Craig.”

_Christ, is it "out-the-criminal" day or something?_

Craig responds to that with, “Some taken, yeah.”

But then she responds with, _whatever_ , and Craig has to fight the urge to flip her off.

More bickering. Craig drums his fingers against his arm. He forces himself to think of different words, to cancel out the ones around him. He remembers Tweek, asking him for help in monologues. He pictures Tweek standing there, gesturing so contentedly with an expression so calm.

 _The mountain is more me than my own body,_ he’d said. _To take it away is to take me away, but the builders didn’t care. The builders don’t know me. They didn’t even try._

 **Fact after fact after fact (stop arguing, _please_ ):**  
**I. Wendy was afraid of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, because**

**II. the symptoms explain Stan’s behavior, and**

**III. she doesn’t believe in coincidences when it relates to Stan.**

**Furthermore:**  
**I. Stan is impulsive**

**II. Stan is depressed**

**III. Stan is an addict, and**

**IV. Stan has thought about suicide before.**

Stan tells Wendy to stop. He says he’s not impulsive. She claims punching a guy is impulsive. Then it jumps.

They say goodbye.

Wendy leaves.

Craig lifts his hat. He examines. He contemplates. He watches. There is silence in the school. There is ringing in Craig’s ears. The hallway feels like the aftermath of an explosion. Craig is the one who speaks. He is the one afraid of silence.

“She really doesn’t know, does she?”

A pause, and then Stan mutters, “Of course not.”

“…dude, that’s fucked.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Stan snaps. He’s looking at Craig, his eyes narrowed.

**Fun Fact: Craig smirks when he’s nervous.**

Craig had forgotten about that. He’s brought back to fourth grade. He’s brought back to Tweek, and he’s brought back to “ _Michael_.”

“You’re right,” Craig replies. He doesn’t have the energy to do much else.

Secretary lady comes back out. “Craig Tucker,” she says, and he notices she’s calmed since they last interacted. Craig stands up, and picks up this messenger bag. He thinks for a second, and then decides to dump responsibility on Stan.

_It’s your fault we’re even in this mess, moron._

But Craig says, “Hand it over to Tweek when he comes by.”

_If you steal anything, I’ll know._

Stan tries to protest, but Craig ignores him. This is a test.

Craig enters the office, and as soon as the door shuts behind him, he’s overwhelmed by the brightness of the lights. He sneezes. His nose starts to bleed again. The secretary woman hurries to retrieve a box of tissues, but Craig already has one in his hand by the time she comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update tomorrow, february 1st!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	19. Act III Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s good at thinking.

Craig doesn’t know how he does it, sometimes. He stays calm while the principal goes over his _final warning_. He stays calm as he leaves, and he stays calm as he greets Tweek and retrieves the bag from Tweek’s hold. The lights are aggravating his senses, and they make his skin crawl under the fluorescence. It’s all he can manage to kiss Tweek’s forehead, take his hand, and walk away. His calm rescinds and forces his hand, however, as he flips Stan off before they’re out of sight. Tweek notices.

Craig doesn’t care.

Craig is tired, and his body is telling him it needs rest. Multiple times, as Tweek and Craig walk down the abandoned halls to the back of the school, Craig’s eyes try to close. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t run into anything accidentally. He is usually very good at holding himself together. Tweek might not be as observant as Craig, but he does notice important things. He grips Craig’s hand tighter.

They don’t sit outside today. It’s too cold, and Craig’s nose would start to bleed again. He doesn’t want to deal with that.

Their second hangout of choice is near the back exit, where the wing’s locker bay is. Tweek’s locker is back here, but they don’t linger next to it. They crawl into the space beneath the staircase, silent. This wing of the school is not very active around this time, which is good for them. They have to be quiet, still, because there are classes in session on either side of them. If they were to stay silent, they would be able to hear the lectures.

 **Correction:**  
**I. Craig would be able to hear the lectures, because**

**II. Tweek is good at blocking things out.**

As soon as they’re settled, Craig curls himself into a ball. His legs are hugged to his chest, and his forehead rests on his knees. His bag sits to his right. Tweek sits to his left. There are two stored desks blocking their front view, but there are three separate tables and six stacked chairs. Craig didn’t try to count them, but he did. It was an accident.

 **Craig:**  
**I. does**

**II. not like**

**III. accidents.**

**Craig:**  
**I. likes**

**II. to have**

**III. control.**

**Craig:**  
**I. doesn’t**

**II. feel in**

**III. control.**

**But, Craig:**  
**I. is**

**II. ultimately**

**III. fine.**

“Are you okay, Craig?” Tweek asks. Craig lifts his head, looking at Tweek with tired eyes. He’d been on the verge of sleep, and his movement made him feel even _more_ exhausted. He’s fine, though, and if Tweek wants to talk, he’ll talk.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Craig replies. “I’m just a little tired.”

“Did you sleep last night?”

Craig remembers a time where _he_ was the one asking _Tweek_ that. The swap in routine had been unpleasant for Craig, at first, but he’s okay. Everything is okay. He’s good at talking himself through things. He’s good at thinking.

 **Fun Fact:**  
**I. Craig was diagnosed with anxiety, once,**

**II. from the therapist that his parents took him to**

**III. when they were worried he was depressed, but**

**IV. that therapist said many things, and**

**V. he thinks the therapist was full of shit, so**

**VI. Craig does not have anxiety.**

“You were up thinking, weren’t you?” Tweek says. It is then that Craig realizes he had forgotten to respond. (Also, he may have dozed off.)

“Nope,” Craig answers. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Tweek rolls his eyes. He straightens his legs out in front of him on the floor. He pats his lap. “C’mere, lay down.”

 **Tweek:**  
**I. has dark circles under his eyes**

**II. has messy hair, and**

**III. probably needs a nap more than Craig does.**

Craig shakes his head and says, “No, I’m fine.”

But Tweek only strengthens in his own little way. The confidence is back, like he’s on stage. “Just fucking lay down, holy shit, man.”

Craig doesn’t move. Tweek narrows his eyes, and pats his lap a few more times, insisting without saying anything. Craig narrows his own eyes. It makes him think of sleep. His body doesn’t listen to his brain. He lays down on his left side. His head is pillowed by Tweek’s lap, and Craig feels.

Oh.

Like.

Safe.

And stuff.

Craig likes it.

Tweek pets his hand down over Craig’s shoulder. The touch is securing. It is reassuring. It feels like space. The thought doesn’t make sense, but Craig doesn’t care. He ignores the meaningless fluff that floats through his brain. He wonders, very briefly, if he has his head in the clouds. He doubts it, but he doesn’t actually know what the idiom means.

Tweek removes Craig’s hat. Tweek starts to smooth back Craig’s hair. Tweek loops his fingers through it, gently pushing his fingertips against Craig’s scalp. Craig shuts his eyes, and imagines the universe in a box. He imagines his perfect reality, where things are settled and predictable and monotonous. Where things are unsurprising and boring and purposeful. It takes a bit of time, but he boxes his imagination into itself. He compartmentalizes. He is good at that.

But there are always those thoughts, that come creeping back in. They are always there. They are always present. They are always waiting, for when it’s silent, for when it’s boring, for when it’s normal. He buys himself more peace by burying himself in games.

**Fun Fact: Craig likes puzzles. They make him think, but they don’t make him _think_.**

Craig thinks about Stan. He thinks about what he’s observed, and he thinks about the way Stan’s brain works.

“My audition went pretty well, I think,” Tweek says suddenly. It draws Craig out of his pondering, and it draws Craig out of his drifting. “I mean, I think they liked it— I don’t actually know, they didn’t really _do_ much during, or whatever, but one of the teachers on the director team did say— ”

“Babe,” Craig interrupts. Tweek stops. Craig’s eyes have long since closed, and with every other word, he’s dozing more. “Please stop talking.”

_I’m going to fall asleep, and I don’t want to miss a word._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daily updates for february!
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism: all is welcome!


	20. Act III Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironically, no one hears him.

“I’m not playing the Sun God,” Craig says. His statement is logical— certainly, it is. The disappointed look on Butters’ face is just because he’s an idiot. In a matter of seconds, Butters does multiple things that Craig does not like.

 **Butters:**  
**I. leans over**

**II. removes Craig’s hat, and**

**III. starts to pet Craig's hair.**

Craig doesn’t react. He does glare at Butters, but Butters doesn’t notice. He’s grinning, carding his fingers through Craig’s hair until it sticks out at all angles. Craig can feel the static building up and making it frizz. It is uncomfortable. He snatches his hat back from Butters, who finally relinquishes his weird hair-styling. Craig pushes his hat back onto his head.

“Lookit how malleable his hair is!” Butters exclaims. “You can mold it like the sun!”

“You can’t mold the sun,” Craig says, but of course no one listens to him.

“He’s literally the worst person to have play the Sun God,” Tricia pipes up. Much like Craig, she stands with her arms crossed and she leans against the side wall of the stage. They are in the auditorium, and they have been for a while. Theater class started fifteen minutes ago, and immediately once the bell rang, Mister Whats-His-Face assigned them a group presentation. There are rules, and those rules are ridiculously dumb.

 **The Rules:**  
**I. every group must create a skit**

**II. the skit must be five minutes long**

**III. you can only talk in gibberish, and**

**IV. the story line must deal with a competition.**

“He’s the only one of us with black hair, he can’t play the Sun God,” Tricia adds. “Tweek should play the Sun God, his hair naturally looks like a bird nest made of hay.”

Craig doesn’t know if he should be grateful that she pulled him out of being the Sun God, or mad that she likened Tweek’s hair to a bird nest. He decides on neither. Thankfully, he doesn’t need to choose. Tweek hops into the conversation without issue. “Okay, I don’t mind being the sun.”

Butters asks, “Then who’s Craig gonna be?”

Craig ignores the urge to blurt, _I’m literally standing right here_. Instead, he focuses his energy on saying, “Nothing.”

They look at him, and on their faces are individual looks of reaction.

 **The people and their reactions:**  
**I. Tricia, who glares**

**II. Butters, who blinks in confusion, and**

**III. Tweek, who furrows his brows.**

“You can’t be nothing,” Tweek says.

“Thanks for ruining my dreams, babe,” replies Craig. Tweek opens his mouth to respond, but Tricia beats him to it.

“He can just play the Thunder God,” she says. “He’s got the right attitude for it.”

“I don’t know,” Butters says, pouting. He kicks against the wooden floor of the stage. “Craig would have to be pretty loud, and I don’t think he’s capable of that.”

“I can be loud,” Craig says. Ironically, no one hears him.

“Well, who the hell else is he gonna be? He has to do _something_.”

There are many things that Craig expects. He has good foresight. He can analyze situations and determine approaches and outcomes quickly. But even his years of practice, especially in broader schemes of things, could not have prepared him for this outcome.

Craig is listening to an argument between Butters and his little sister— and the argument is about _him_ , of all things.

**Fun Fact: Craig doesn’t like arguments.**

He pulls the ears of his chullo hat down, just a little, to affirm the coverage. It’s essentially asinine; the fabric is not soundproof. It does, however, help him feel a little more in control. It’s occupying his hands, at least, which is better than just standing around and doing nothing.

“Will you guys shut up?” Tweek asks. The irritation in his tone is evident, and the three of them all look over to him— in surprise, if nothing else. In a huff, he throws his arms up into the air and says, “We have a performance to plan! We can’t just sit here fighting about the characters, okay?”

Tweek turns to Craig, who notices a few little things.

 **Tweek has:**  
**I. calmed quickly**

**II. accepting eyes, and**

~~**III. a cute face** ~~

~~**III. a really cute face** ~~

**III. a good sense of leadership.**

Tweek is firm in the question he asks next. “Do you have any ideas, Craig?”

Craig shrugs. He knows he isn’t being helpful, but he isn’t too bothered by that. He doesn’t really want to be here, anyway. If he fails, it’s not his issue— it’s the school’s issue for forcing him to do something he has showed no interest in pursuing. Apathetic, Craig shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Butters suddenly exclaims, raising his hand into the air. “I got one! I got one! Pick me!”

But Tweek ignores him. “Craig, I don’t want to push you into anything, and I want you to be involved,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t have any ideas?”

Once again, Craig shrugs. Butters raises his hand higher into the air.

“Pick me, pick me, pick me!”

Finally, Tweek’s expression falls, and he gives Butters a quiet, “Okay, what?”

“Moon God!” shouts Butters. Half the auditorium pauses, but then quickly goes back to their own presentation preparation. Butters doesn’t notice the fact that he’d caused a distraction, though he does continue in a much calmer manner. “Craig, you can be the Moon God! And maybe— ooh, maybe you and Tweek have a long-time grudge, or—”

Theatrically, Butters gasps, slapping both hands over his mouth.

“ _A hidden romance_ ,” Butters wheezes. “The conflict of _star-crossed_ lovers! Literally!”

Craig would like to leave.

“A hidden romance,” repeats Tweek hesitantly. Facts hit Craig like a train.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. looks at Craig out of the corner of his eye, and**

**II. starts to appear a little flushed.**

Craig looks away quickly, and pretends he notices nothing.

“That might be a little elaborate for a five minute skit,” Tweek says.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t try it!” Butters argues. “I mean, what could go wrong?”

**Fun Fact: A lot can go wrong.**

**The things that happen, in order:**  
**I. they present last**

**II. Butters’ character dies rather dramatically**

**III. Tweek keeps looking at him**

**IV. Craig says nothing the entire time**

**V. Craig flips the theater teacher off**

**VI. the stage lights are too bright, so**

**VII. Craig sneezes, and**

**VIII. Craig's nose starts to bleed (again).**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	21. Act III Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig doesn’t want to be wasteful.

Craig pushes the grains of rice around on his plate, examining the structures and textures that he can make out from the given distance. Furthermore, there is a dark brown hunk of steak that he does not consider eating. In his eyes, it is primarily gristle and fat, and he cannot stand the look or texture of gristle or fat.

Maybe it’s ridiculous, but they remind him of poison, and Craig cannot convince his brain to view it as anything other than that. So, he doesn’t eat steak. Even when his mother puts it on his plate and tells him _It’s good for you, sweetie_. The conflict is entirely mind-over-matter, and not in the good way. It is mind-over-matter in an unchangeable, fixed fear of something that just looks inherently _wrong_.

So, yeah. Craig doesn’t eat steak.

He pokes a grain of rice with the prong of his fork, and watches it split in half. It mushes under the pressure. The imagery is less than appetizing, and suddenly, Craig finds he isn’t very hungry anymore. He takes the time to regret some things.

 **Craig regrets:**  
**I. coming down to eat**

**II. wasting food, and**

**III. being utterly unhelpful.**

“Mom, Craig’s playing with his food again,” says Tricia through a mouthful of rice. Her voice annoys him, plain and simple. He pushes her complaints out the theoretical window and simply continues to swirl his fork through the small pile of rice he should be eating.

**Fun Fact: PSR B1509-58 is a pulsar alternatively titled the “Hand of God”.**

**The “Hand of God”:**  
**I. is 17,000 light-years away**

**II. belongs to the constellation of Circinus, and**

**III. was discovered in 1982.**

Craig looks up when he picks up on movement. When he does, he sees that his mother is looking at him expectantly, and Tricia has a weird expression on her face. He does not care about her weird expression, though, and decides to ignore it like it doesn’t exist. His mom says something. He hears the sound, but he doesn’t hear the words. Her intent look quirks like she wants him to respond.

“What did you say?” he asks. “I forgot to listen.”

**Fun Fact: Craig does that, sometimes— but only sometimes.**

Craig’s mother frowns at him and says, “I asked if you were feeling alright, Craig, you’ve barely touched your dinner and that isn’t like you.”

 **Mrs. Tucker:**  
**I. makes statements like that often, and**

**II. thinks she knows Craig.**

**Craig both:**  
**I. appreciates the effort, and**

**II. hates the fact that she gets him wrong.**

Craig slides his napkin over his plate so no one can see the food he hasn’t eaten. He picks the plate up and stands. He makes his way to the corner of the kitchen where the trashcan is, but he stops short when his mother starts to talk again.

“Craig, you aren’t done eating, come back here.”

Craig stares at her. She stares back. Tricia says something, but Craig only flips her off. He can see Tricia flip him off out of the corner of his gaze, and he notices a distinct twitch in their mother’s eye.

 **Craig can tell:**  
**I. Mrs. Tucker is trying to keep herself calm, and**

**II. that means she’s trying not to flip either of them off.**

Craig says, “I’m not hungry, I’ll save it for later.”

Craig doesn’t want to be wasteful. They can't afford to waste food. He reroutes himself and grabs a Tupperware container out of the cabinet. His mother protests that he should finish eating, but he has already decided he will not do that. Eating is boring, anyway. It just feels like busywork. Why should he eat if he isn’t even hungry? He will eat when he needs it. It’s just logical.

He pushes the empty plate into the dishwasher and excuses himself to his room. He doesn’t go to his room immediately, but if anyone notices, it’s not stated. He circles through the office next to the kitchen, and when he doesn’t find who he’s looking for, he goes back around and enters the living room.

There she is.

 **Pandora:**  
**I. sits calmly**

**II. is chewing on a toy, and**

**III. is a golden retriever.**

“Pandora,” he says. Immediately, Pandora perks up. As soon as she sees Craig, she drops the toy and her tail starts to wag. He doesn’t have to say anything else. Pandora knows him well, and she understands the things he needs before even he does. She gets up from the floor and walks over to him. She makes to leap up to paw his chest, but he gives a disapproving noise of “no” before she can.

Craig is split into pieces. He doesn’t know which to follow, but he observes them nonetheless.

 **Craig’s pieces include:**  
**I. wanting to drop to the floor right where he stands**

**II. wanting to give her a treat because she’s good, and**

**III. doing what he intends to.**

The option is nonexistent. The decision is obvious. Craig follows through with his plans. Otherwise, there would be no use for plans.

**Fun Fact: Things exist for a reason, but it isn’t spiritual.**

Craig gently hooks his fingers in her collar so she will follow him when he walks. He takes her upstairs to his bedroom, closes the door, turns off all the lights, and shuts the blinds. It is dark. It is winter, so the sun disappears earlier, and he likes that. It is a pattern. An unpredictable pattern, but a pattern nonetheless.

Craig lays on his back on the floor, because Pandora isn’t allowed on his bed. He wasn’t the one who made that rule. His parents did. They said it’s not good to let her up there, but they haven’t told him why. To him, it’s stupid, but he has a feeling it’s so they don’t have to brush all of the fur out of his blankets and sheets all the time.

Craig closes his left fist and pats his right shoulder with it. “Soothe,” he says, very quiet, but she still hears him.

Pandora crawls on top of him, resting her forelegs on his chest and her head on his sternum. The rest of her body weighs down his torso, and it’s nice. He pets her side until the texture of fur numbs the palm of his hand.

He can hear his breathing. It’s calm. The pressure is nice, like nothing can mess up.

 **The planets, in order from the sun:**  
**I. Mercury**

**II. Venus**

**III. Earth**

**IV. Mars**

**V. Jupiter**

**VI. Saturn**

**VII. Uranus**

**VIII. Neptune**

**Fun Fact: That’s how Craig falls asleep.**

 

 **END ACT THREE**  
**“Economic Lessons”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	22. Intermission III

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A STRIKINGLY OFF MOUNTAIN — DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy tries to pinpoint the thing that is different. He’s been at this for what feels like hours, and those hours have stretched on for miles. He feels out of breath, like he’s been running the whole time, giving his all, but getting nothing in return. No matter how hard he looks, he can’t figure out what’s off. Because he is certain— he is _certain_ — something about this picture is wrong.

It’s the hill that’s a little too small, that shouldn’t be there. Or maybe it’s the copse of evergreens to his left. Maybe the shrubbery is too big, or maybe the sky is too blue, or maybe the mountain is just a smidgen taller than it should be. Maybe the water is too deep, or maybe it’s too shallow, or maybe it shouldn’t be there at all. Maybe there should be something that isn’t. Is there too much, or too little? Too big, or too small? Too high, or too low?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know_.

And that, he is almost certain, is going to be the death of him. The not knowing. The unknown. The thing that he cannot pinpoint. The hill that’s too small, the copse that’s too vivid, the shrub that’s too big. All of them could roll into one and snuff him out like a candle. The little things are known to do that. They’re known to sneak up and collect and snowball, until they travel down the mountainside and drag him with it. He asks if he ever had a chance. If things were stacked against him in the first place, or— or maybe he wasn’t trying hard enough?

He doesn’t like the idea that he might not be trying hard enough. He wants to say he’s been giving it his all, he wants to be able to say _yes, I’m still meeting all of the standards_ , but what if he isn’t?

The sky rolls, foreboding. He can feel the clouds begin to swirl, and there’s a chill that settles over him. It’s so real, he shivers— so palpable, he grabs his own arms and hugs himself warm.

The chill passes, the clouds disappear, and as such, so does the vision and everything in it.

Tweek rubs his eyes free of the mountain, and when he perks back up again, he takes in Craig’s room with little issue. His eyes are momentarily drawn to the picture of Pandora’s Cluster. Craig had moved it down, beneath the window rather than next to it over the bed. Tweek doesn’t know why Craig did that— not really, at least. He’d asked, once, and the only answer he’d received had been a simple statement of, “Kenny.”

Movement catches Tweek’s attention. Pandora’s tail is wagging, and she’s nudging Craig’s knee with her snout. Tweek looks at Craig more fully, and notices that Craig isn’t looking at him, nor is he looking at Pandora. His attention has been turned elsewhere. Momentarily, Tweek tries to follow Craig’s gaze, but he can’t tell what it is he’s enamored with.

Tweek turns back. “Babe,” he says, trying to pull Craig out of his focus. It works, and Craig lifts his head to look at Tweek. It is then that he notices something else about Craig. His nose is bleeding. Tweek actively works to bite back the involuntary yelp of shock. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and calmly says, “Your nose is bleeding again.”

Craig immediately reaches a hand up to test the theory, feeling for blood with the side of his finger. He pulls it away, and appears mildly shocked at the fact that it comes away speckled with red. All Craig says is, “Oh,” and even then, it’s cracked and dry, low in his throat and shallow. In a matter of seconds, he’s back to observing something Tweek can’t see. There is no classic Craig Tucker scanning look, though. His expression is blank.

Tweek clicks off the slowly-oscillating fan so the air is less dry, and grabs a tissue from a travel pack on Craig’s desk.

“Craig, are you feeling okay?” Tweek asks. Craig gives a little grunt of a noise and takes the tissue when it’s presented. He presses it to his nose, absently trying to stop the bleeding, but Tweek notices he’s focused on something else. Tweek sits down on the bed next to Craig, who winces at the movement of the mattress beneath them. Frowning, Tweek asks, “Do you feel one coming on?”

Craig makes another noise, and this time, Tweek understands it. That would be a yes. Ultimately, it makes sense. Craig usually gets distant when migraines start up. It’s his way of dealing with the pain of them. When they get really bad, though, Craig is debilitated, and sometimes he physically can’t stop himself from whimpering. It’s painful to listen to, but Tweek knows it’s a million times worse for Craig.

“I’ll go get your meds,” Tweek says, keeping his voice low. Craig has assured him time and time again that sound doesn’t worsen it, but Tweek likes to keep things quiet just in case. Craig doesn’t make any noise of response. He just closes his eyes.

Gently, Tweek stands and makes his way down to get the medication.

  
**BEGIN ACT IV**   
**“Spontaneous”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	23. Case Study #4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Butters Stotch

**CASE STUDY #4:**  
**LEOPOLD “BUTTERS” STOTCH**

_Some very important facts about: Butters Stotch_

_Butters Stotch is a natural blonde, with blue eyes, and a surprisingly tan complexion in comparison to Kenny or Clyde. He spends most of his time outside. Butters Stotch is blind in his left eye from a wayward throwing star back in fourth grade. He likes to deny it, but everyone knows because his depth perception sucks and he runs into things all the time. Butters Stotch is unobservant like that._

Stotch approaches Craig’s car after school. He sees Stotch coming before Stotch thinks he does. That is a lie, but neither one cares, so it doesn’t matter. Stotch knocks on the driver’s side window. To be polite, Craig cranks it down. Stotch crouches down, rests his elbow (left) on the car window ledge. Craig expects him to be smiling that stupid smile of his, but he isn’t. Stotch looks Craig dead in the eyes.

Stotch says, “I need some shit.”

Craig rolls his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He hits the button to unlock the doors. Stotch walks around the car, climbs into the passenger’s seat, and shuts the door behind himself.

_Side Note: Butters Stotch’s innocence is an act._

Craig says, “I don’t have much time, so this has to be quick. What do you need?”

Stotch says, “I need some E.”

Craig reaches into the backseat. He rifles through his messenger bag. He pulls out his BS, his pen, and the small dealing bag of Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (2). He had Stotch’s order ready. He’s had it ready since the last time they saw each other. Stotch has never bought from him before, but Craig knew it was coming. Stotch is predictable.

Craig hands over the order. Stotch takes it. He pulls out his wallet. He asks, “What do I owe?”

Craig replies, “How many cigarettes you got?”

Stotch quirks a brow (right). He brings out his pack of Marlboro’s. When he opens the pack, the smell of tobacco is strong. Craig counts the cigarettes in his head (13). Stotch takes one out and then says, “Twelve.”

Fair enough. Craig takes a moment to think. He says, “I’ll make you a deal. If you supply me with cigarettes, I’ll supply you with that shit.”

Stotch’s expression is disbelieving. He scoffs. He asks, “What’s the catch?”

Craig says, “You still have to pay me five bucks each order.”

Stotch mulls it over. He agrees. He asks, “Does every three months work for you?”

It does.

_Relationship: Butters Stotch will supply me with cigarettes._

Stotch hands over the pack of twelve (12) cigarettes. Craig takes it silently, and he also takes the five bucks that Stotch offers him afterward. Craig puts both items into his messenger bag. He flips open his BS, inputs the exchange, and replaces everything into his bag.

When Stotch speaks, his voice is muffled by the cigarette. He has put it into his mouth. It hangs out of the corner (left), held between his lips. He’s digging around for a lighter. He asks, “Mind if I smoke?”

Craig thinks on that. After a second, he says, “Go for it.”

Stotch flicks the lighter and draws in a heavy drag. He pockets the lighter. Craig rolls down the passenger’s side window so the smoke can go somewhere, and not suffocate them.

Craig mildly craves a cigarette of his own, but he can wait. He’s patient. He also doesn’t want to smell too much like cigarettes around Tweek.

To pass the time, Craig says, “Tell me something about yourself.”

Stotch’s mouth falls open just a bit (1.5 cm). The smoke seeps out from between his teeth. He says, “‘But ranged as infantry, and staring face to face, I shot him as he at me, and killed him in his place.’”

_Footnote: Butters Stotch feels connected to poetry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poem: "The Man He Killed" by Thomas Hardy 
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	24. Act IV Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tweek flinches at the volume.

“What’s the first rule of improv?” asks the theater teacher. His name escapes Craig, so he has officially been dubbed “Mr. Douchebag”. Mr. Douchebag’s voice echoes blandly in the auditorium. It grates on Craig’s ears, but he can’t escape it. He’s stuck between Butters and Tweek in this stupid circle. Mr. Douchebag stands in the middle of said circle, and he turns intermittently to look at every theater student. Craig flips Mr. Douchebag off everytime he looks his way, but Mr. Douchebag doesn’t seem to give a shit.

Craig finds that interesting.

“What’s the first rule of improv?” Mr. Douchebag repeats, louder. This time, the class erupts in a yell of an answer:

“Never say no!”

There is a noise— quiet, subdued, but still existent— to Craig’s left. He glances over. He takes notice of a few things.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. has made a soft gasping noise**

**II. is holding his breath, and**

**III. looks kind of pale.**

“What’s the second rule of improv?” Mr. Douchebag says.

The class responds, “Say ‘yes, and’!”

Tweek makes that noise again, but it’s less forceful. Craig gives him another glance. The observable things have not changed. He comes to the conclusion that Tweek does not enjoy improv. Admittedly, it surprises Craig, but not too much. He remembers the way Tweek tensed at just the mention of it back in the beginning of the semester.

“And the third rule of improv is…” Mr. Douchebag says.

The oh-so-obedient class replies, “Make statements!”

Craig picks up a different sound. He glances over.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. is breathing heavily**

**II. is breathing shakily, and**

**III. is breathing rapidly.**

**(IV. is almost silently hyperventilating.)**

Craig frowns. He pulls his hand out of his pocket in favor of reaching over. His fingers just barely brush Tweek’s own, but Tweek reacts like Craig tried to pinch him. Tweek tugs his hand away, holds it up to his chest, and mutters something along the lines of, “Don’t touch me.”

“What’s the final rule of improv?” shouts Mr. Douchebag. Tweek flinches at the volume.

This time, Butters is the only one who responds. “There are no mistakes, just happy accidents—” he cuts off as soon as he realizes everyone else is silently staring. Butters makes an angry face, snaps his fingers, and says, “Awh, hamburgers! I did it again…”

**Fun Fact: Butters can’t keep his mouth shut.**

“It’s okay, Butters, you’re right,” Mr. Douchebag says. He then goes on some classic Mr. Douchebag lecture about how the class should know this stuff. They did go over it in class yesterday, did they not remember?

Of course, Craig remembers. He remembers vividly. After all of the presentations (Craig’s group went last— long story short, he renewed the habit of giving everyone the finger), Mr. Douchebag had brought up the improv unit in passing two minutes before the bell. Tweek hadn’t been nearly as upset by the mention of it yesterday. Then again, Craig was pretty sure Tweek had been ignoring the world and everything in it. He’d gotten that look in his eyes, the one that says he’s not paying attention.

 **Craig:**  
**I. wishes he could do that, but**

**II. knows he can**

**(III. just gets in trouble for it, so)**

**(IV. has learned not to.)**

Mr. Douchebag asks for volunteers. A few people raise their hands, including Butters and that stupid Brad-looking kid, but Mr. Douchebag doesn’t give enough of a damn to actually notice the volunteers. Instead, he goes all laser-focused on Tweek. Craig knows why.

 **The reasons why:**  
**I. Tweek is the best in the class**

**II. Tweek has already taken the class, and**

**III. Tweek has probably already proved he’s good at improv.**

**(IV. Tweek would be the best to set a good example.)**

“Tweek,” Mr. Douchebag calls. All of the air rushes out of Tweek’s lungs again. The paleness he’d gained has harshened, making him look almost ghostly. Mr. Douchebag doesn’t seem to notice the obvious distress, though. He’s smiling, and he gestures with an open-palm. “Would you help us out with improv?”

Something happens. Things happen often, but this thing is not a normal thing. Tweek makes a frightened noise, but it’s so quiet no one else hears it. Craig is starting to get concerned. Suddenly, Tweek stumbles, grabbing onto Craig with his left hand and pressing his right hand over his stomach. Both sets of fingers curl into the fabric they touch. He takes a shaky step back.

In a matter of seconds, Tweek lets go of Craig, turns on his heel, and runs off the stage without saying a word. He picks up pace even further as he walks through the rows of chairs in the empty audience. The door squeals when he pushes it open, and it slams behind him. Craig can still recall the sound of Tweek trying not to hyperventilate— or at least trying to be sneaky about it. It leaves a bitter taste in Craig’s mouth. He becomes angry.

 **Craig is angry at:**  
**I. Mr. Douchebag for his ridiculousness**

**II. the class for not stepping in when Tweek was _obviously_ not okay, and**

**III. himself, for not doing anything.**

Mr. Douchebag says something, but Craig isn’t listening. He’s not trying to listen, at least, and he’s able to ignore the words that try to intrude. Things feel a little fast, but in the moment, Craig can’t find it within himself to care. He makes eye contact with Mr. Douchebag. Direct eye contact. For a split second, that’s it. Then, Craig lifts his hands and raises both middle fingers.

As Craig turns to follow Tweek, he hears Butters ask if everything’s okay. Craig doesn’t answer.

Craig hops down from the rise of the stage and maneuvers between seats and through rows to get to the same door Tweek had fled out of. Craig forces it open with his shoulder. The squeal it lets out makes him flinch, but he ignores it in favor of scanning the hallway. It doesn’t take long to find Tweek. He’s hovering near the bathrooms, his forehead against the wall and the fingers of his left hand scrabbling at the same surface. His right hand is still over his stomach, tugging at the fabric of his shirt and wrapping it around his knuckles until it threatens to stretch permanently.

Craig ignores the sound of the auditorium door opening behind him as he approaches Tweek. Craig sticks to the wall so he won’t startle Tweek, who has already started to lose vigor in his hyperventilation. That could mean one of two things.

 **Those things:**  
**I. Tweek is calming down naturally, or**

**II. Tweek is going to faint.**

Afraid of the latter, Craig takes the risk. He comes close and wraps an arm around Tweek’s shoulders, ready to catch him if he goes down. He expects Tweek to retaliate like he had earlier, but he doesn’t. Tweek leans his head back and scratches for a grip on Craig’s shoulder. As he clings to Craig, Tweek whispers a repetitive mantra of “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me”. But when Craig tries to obey, Tweek pulls him closer. Tweek’s fingers shake, and with every outward breath, he whimpers.

“Babe,” Craig says. He adjusts his hold so it’s more like a hug. Tweek is shaking. “Babe, how can I help?”

“I— I— I don’t, I—” Tweek can’t get the words out. Craig makes the executive decision to sit the two of them down on the floor. Tweek doesn’t protest, just continues to try saying “I don’t know”.

“Honey, it’s okay, don’t fight it,” Craig tells him. Tweek whines and curls up, pressing his back against the wall. Craig sits down in front of him. Craig doesn’t know what to do, so he resorts to running his fingers smoothly through Tweek’s hair.

Craig feels someone approach. He knows it’s the same person who followed him out, and that person is Butters. Bumping his knuckles together, Butters asks, “Is he okay?”

Craig answers, “He’ll be fine.”

“Can I help?” Butters questions.

It’s unfair, but Craig looks at Tweek as if expecting an answer. He _doesn’t_ expect one, of course— that would just be cruel. Tweek is having issues just being able to breathe properly. God knows what’s going on in his head, and God knows what started this. Craig’s brain rolls on a loop, stuck between telling him to _soothe_ and telling him to _fight the motherfucker who started it_. Perhaps it’s juvenile, but Craig blames Mr. Douchebag.

Craig looks up when Butters crouches next to Tweek. He stays a solid two feet away, which Craig is thankful for. He doesn’t want Tweek to be further overwhelmed.

And then, Butters starts to talk.

“Hey, buddy, can you hear me?” When Tweek nods, Butters continues. “Everything’s okay, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, yeah?”

Tweek shakes in an outward whine. He shifts, and when he does, Craig catches a glimpse of his face. His eyes aren’t shut like they usually would be. They’re open, wide and afraid and staring at the floor. It hurts Craig to see him like this.

 **It hurts:**  
**I. so much (He wishes he could take it away from Tweek)**

**II. so much (He wishes he could go through this instead of Tweek)**

**III. so much (Repeat, repeat, repeat, breathe.)**

“I’m going to go get him some water,” Butters says, nodding to Craig. Craig returns the nod, though it’s utterly mechanical. His focus is on Tweek, and he doesn’t have enough energy for keeping up any public facades. Butters doesn’t seem to notice. He just gets up and walks down the hallway.

A few seconds later, Tweek has calmed a little bit. It’s not much, but it’s enough for him to be able to speak a few words intermittently. “Oh, God!” Tweek cries. Both of his hands relinquish their grip on Craig in favor of hugging himself. His fingers dig into his sides. Then, he’s talking again. “It’s so fucked, it’s so fucked, it’s so _fucked_ , stop it, I _can’t_.”

“Stop what, honey?” Craig asks, but the answer he gets is inaudible. Fuck, he needs a breakthrough. Something. “How can I help? What are you feeling?”

**Fun Fact: Too many questions is never a good thing.**

But Tweek answers this one. “ _Everything_ ,” he wheezes. “I feel everything, everything is happening, it’s— it’s _so fucked_.”

“I know, love, I know,” Craig says, but it’s a lie. He makes a decision. It’s a risky decision, but it’s a decision, and sometimes that’s all you need. “Tweek, honey, don’t fight it, okay? We’re gonna give it two minutes to ride out, babe, don’t fight it.”

“What?” Tweek hisses. “Don’t— don't fight it? I can’t— I can't— I  _can't_  not fight it! Craig! I’ll die!”

“You won’t die, babe,” replies Craig. He smooths Tweek’s hair back. Tweek lifts his head. “Two minutes, that’s it, alright? It’s not gonna be comfortable, but it’ll help. I’m right here.”

Tweek tears a fresh cut into his lip. Blood bubbles up. Craig forces himself not to say anything, even if he wants to. He knows it won’t help.

“You won’t die,” he reaffirms. This time, Tweek nods.

“Okay,” Tweek says. “I— okay.”

 **The events, from there, in order:**  
**I. they wait the two minutes**

**II. Tweek doesn’t fight it**

**III. by some stroke of luck, it works**

**IV. Butters comes back with the water**

**V. Tricia comes out to check on them, and**

**VI. Tweek tells Craig he needs a break, so**

**VII. Craig will give him a break.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	25. Act IV Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig gets the hint.

**Fun Fact: There’s nothing Tweek does more gently than smoke a joint.**

The smoke flows from between Tweek’s lips. If the joint weren’t perched between his fingers, it would just look like a puff of air from the cold temperature. They could get away with that excuse, too, because they’ve holed themselves up in that classic alcove behind the school. When the seniors stopped hanging out here, Craig monopolized it for quality time with Tweek. In a matter of months, though, a list of important events happened, and thusly began Craig’s business.

**The list of important events:  
I. to be revisited.**

Tweek’s fidgeting has long-since stopped. He’s been panic free (at least outwardly) for more than twenty minutes, and as twenty-five approaches quickly, he only grows more relaxed. He doesn’t smoke weed nearly as much as he used to, but he still dabbles on particularly bad anxiety days.

 **The tale of Tweek and weed:**  
**I. his parents don’t believe in traditional anti-anxiety medications, so**

**II. they brought him to self-proclaimed “naturopathic doctors”, who**

**III. prescribed him plenty of “natural” and “herbal” supplements to “soothe the heart”, but**

**IV. those supplements did nothing to help, and**

**V. Tweek stopped trusting his parents with anything, so**

**VI. he turned to Craig, who**

**VII. had recently started selling marijuana (and other things) for a few quick bucks.**

Craig has his nose buried in a book. It’s his BS, and while it holds his supplies and case studies, it also is just a normal book. He has a system in the book with its words and letters, and he can switch between the two modes of it with ease. He’s halfway through the fifteenth read-through, and he knows the words of the book better than he knows his room, but it still isn’t boring. If anything, it just gets more and more comfortable with every read. He loves the way he knows it. He loves it, because it is sturdy. It is predictable. It is safe.

He needs safe.

“Hey, Craig.”

Craig looks up from his book, holding an image of the place he’d left off on in the back of his brain. Tweek is looking at him. He no longer reclines against the brick wall. He’s gotten to his hands and knees, the joint perched between his lips. He crawls over to Craig. The gravel shuffles and cracks as he advances, and his shirt falls a little, revealing an inch of skin around his hips.

When Tweek is only a few inches away, he picks up Craig’s book and places it back in the messenger bag. Then, he kicks the bag until it’s a few feet away from them, leaning against the wall. Craig gets the hint. He’s been in similar situations enough times to know what Tweek is looking for. He straightens out his legs, and Tweek takes the invitation to climb into Craig’s lap, straddling his thighs.

Tweek takes the joint out of his mouth. He wastes no time in pressing it out against the wall. Then, he drops it, a safe distance away from the two of them. Tweek walks his fingers up the sides of Craig’s neck until he’s caressing Craig’s jaw, smoothing his thumbs over Craig’s lips. Tweek tips his head back, blowing the remaining smoke from his lungs and taking in a deep breath of clean air.

Then, Tweek dips his head back down, capturing Craig’s lips in a kiss. It’s neat and tidy and dry, and Craig can feel the scab from where Tweek bit himself bloody earlier. Their eyes fall closed as they slip into their own little world. They ignore the cold and hold each other, giving each other kisses in simple, predictable intervals.

Just as Craig had expected, Tweek gathers confidence quickly. Every time they make out, Tweek pins Craig to something. It happens without fail. This time is no different. His palms dig, harsh and tight, into Craig’s shoulders, pinning him to the brick wall.

Those kisses of theirs become rough. Tweek leads them, and Craig follows. He allows Tweek to capture his bottom lip between his teeth, and he allows Tweek to bite hard into the flesh of it. It stings— no, it _hurts_ , but Craig is able to push it away. He can internalize the pain and rationalize it out of existence. Tweek likes being rough, and Craig doesn’t really have a preference at all. Might as well let Tweek do what he likes, right?

**Fun Fact: Craig has never been interested in sex. It’s always seemed very mechanical to him.**

Tweek is getting hard. Craig can feel it against him. Not very well, but he _can_ feel it. He wants to help him out with that, so he does. With Tweek pinning his shoulders, it’s a little difficult to get used to the mobility, but Craig manages to undo Tweek’s fly without pulling away from the kissing.

Again, Tweek nips him. Craig lets out a soft noise because he’s not expecting it. Tweek’s teeth are dangerous, capable of doing irreparable damage, but so far, he’s never drawn Craig’s blood. For that, Craig is grateful. He likes keeping his blood inside of his body.

Craig palms against the outline of Tweek’s length through his boxers. Tweek pulls away from the kiss to catch his breath. In the moment of freedom, Craig glances down. He quirks a brow at what he sees.

“Are those my briefs?” Craig asks. Tweek snorts, amused.

“Depends, do you— Jesus— _oh_ , wow.” And then Tweek lets out a soft gasp. He drops his hands from Craig’s shoulders, allowing him normal mobility, and instead grabs Craig’s forearm.

**Fun Fact: Tweek does that when he’s turned on.**

Finally, Tweek asks, “Do you want them to be?”

Craig laughs. “You stole my underwear?”

“Mine keep disappearing!”

“Right, right, underpants gnomes.”

Craig initiates the next kiss. He’s gentle with it, but Tweek soon takes over, giving it a certain power that Craig has never been able to master. The grip on Craig’s forearm falters, and then intensifies. He tugs Craig’s hands away from his crotch, then, whispering, “Okay, okay, if you don’t stop that, I’m gonna come.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Craig asks. Tweek must take that as a joke, because he laughs. He kisses Craig on the lips, and then trails pecks from the corner of his mouth to the end of his jawline. To keep his hands busy, Craig sneaks them beneath Tweek’s shirt and rubs at the soft skin of his ribs and sides. Tweek smiles.

“Well, it’s the point _sometimes_ , but… it doesn’t have to be.” Tweek nips the side of Craig’s neck. Craig isn’t sure how he feels about that, but he certainly didn’t hate it, so he lets Tweek do it again. “Hey, honey, can I maybe return the favor?”

“Babe—” but Craig doesn’t get a chance to fully respond. Tweek has already slid a hand down to palm at Craig through his jeans. Tweek pulls away soon, though, his brows furrowed.

“You’re not…” Tweek trails off. He doesn’t finish the sentence; he doesn’t need to. They both know what he means. Immediately, Craig feels guilty.

“Honey, it’s not you,” Craig says. He winces at the internalized continuation of _it’s me_. It feels cliche, and that’s probably because it is, but it’s the only thing that makes sense in the moment. He’s heard it in movies and television shows, he’s read it in books, people say it. He can’t express himself accurately without relying on something else as a crutch. He feels guilty about that, too.

“I know, babe, don’t worry,” Tweek says, reassuring. “It’s okay, Craig, there's no rush.”

**Fun Fact: They never go farther than this, even when they have the opportunity.**

**Fun Fact: They'd like to save themselves for marriage.**

But that doesn’t help Craig with the things he’s feeling.

 **Craig feels:**  
**I. guilty**

**II. angry, and**

~~**III. like a disappointment.** ~~

**III. disappointed.**

Tweek leans in and kisses him softly. It’s nice, and Craig wants that type of kiss again, but they don’t have the time to do anything else. There’s the distinct sound of the door opening, and footsteps travel firmly until they reach the alcove’s entrance. Neither Craig nor Tweek moves. At the sounds, they both turn their heads, watching the visitor.

 **Stan Marsh:**  
**I. squirms through the dumpsters, and**

**II. looks disgusted by something (likely the smell).**

“What do you want, Marsh?” Craig asks. He watches in silent amusement as Stan’s expression goes from conflicted, to confused, to startled— and, finally, rests on determined.

“Fine,” is all Stan says. Craig expects more, but there is none. Talk about vague. Tweek adjusts in his lap, turning to see Stan more clearly. There is something here that Craig is missing. What is it?

 **Some things:**  
**I. Stan is just standing there, like**

**II. Craig knows everything, and**

**III. Craig really hates that.**

Craig replies, “Fine what?”

“To your question,” says Stan. He sounds like he usually does, but he looks uncertain.

 **Stan:**  
**I. drops his backpack**

**II. rolls up his sleeves, and**

**III. tries to look like he belongs.**

**(IV. doesn’t belong.)**

“Y’know, the one that you were so keen on getting me to agree to? The one that you approached me in the first place for?”

And, suddenly, Craig knows _exactly_ what Stan is talking about. How strange. He’d pretty much forgotten about Stan, and he’d almost forgotten about his game. But now, he remembers, and he doesn’t plan on forgetting again. Stan is now more interesting than ever. He’d not wanted anything before, but now he does. Something has changed, but what?

“Well, I’m here,” Stan adds. “And I’m agreeing. You got me. Now, are we gonna do this thing, or not?”

 _Funny,_ Craig finds himself thinking. _Who put you in charge?_

But that’s the thing.

**Fun Fact: Stan was always in charge, wasn’t he?**

Craig obeys Stan’s roundabout wishes.

 **Craig:**  
**I. takes his hands out of Tweek’s shirt**

**II. zips up Tweek’s fly**

**III. pats Tweek’s thigh, and**

**IV. smiles and says thanks when Tweek acknowledges what he wants without him needing to disclose it.**

Tweek has handed over the messenger bag and traveled to the opposite end of the alcove, hovering near the chain link fence. Craig looks back to Stan, who is watching silently.

“You finally came around. Sweet.” Craig unbuckles the messenger bag and flips open the flap. “Take a seat.”

Stan does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	26. Act IV Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then, Stan shrugs.

With the bags newly spread out before them, Craig takes to breaking the silence they’d all fallen into. “So, what got you to change your mind, Marsh?”

 **Stan:**  
**I. coughs**

**II. breathes, and**

**III. says, “I got nothing to lose.”**

There is a silence. Craig finally looks up from his focus on the drugs. Stan’s expression is stiff, held like he wants it to be the way it is. It loses impact, though, and something new can be seen. Craig doesn’t know what the new thing is, but it’s there.

Craig needs to figure it out.

He repeats Stan’s words aloud. They’re concerning. Craig remembers Stan and Wendy’s glorified arguing. He remembers the facts. A few of them in particular stand out to him.

 **Stan:**  
**I. is depressed**

**II. has substance abuse issues, and**

**III. has contemplated suicide before.**

“It was a joke, chill out,” Stan says, rubbing his hands together. That doesn’t make Craig feel better.

“He’s bullshitting,” Tweek pipes up from behind Craig, near the chain link fence. Immediately, he questions Stan. “What do you mean you don’t have anything to lose, man?”

Craig cuts in. “Is this a ‘you only live once’ type of thing, or an ‘I don’t care anymore’ type of thing?” he asks. His nose itches, and he sniffs. It feels like it might start bleeding again, if he isn’t careful.

_Thanks for hitting me, douche._

**Fun Fact: “Douche” is also the French word for “Shower”.**

“You’re not planning on doing something stupid, are you?” Tweek asks. Craig adds on.

“I might not like you very much, but that doesn’t mean I wanna see you in a casket.”

Raising his hands in surrender, Stan says, “Guys, come on, I didn’t come here to be interrogated.”

Craig bites back the urge to call Stan an idiot. He adjusts his posture, ignoring the fact that his back pops in a few places. “The relationship between a buyer and his dealer is close,” he says. “I’m like a therapist, but a whole hell of a lot cheaper, so whether you like it or not, we’re gonna be bros from now on. A part of being bros, means me making sure you aren’t about to sabotage my reputation by overdosing on your first run around the block.”

“Sounds like you’re just watching your own ass, to me,” Stan quips.

“That, too.”

“Great.” Stan slouches, but his body language doesn’t stop there.

 **Stan:**  
**I. isn’t meeting Craig’s gaze**

**II. has a wilted expression, and**

**III. _there is_ _something in those eyes._**

**(IV. what is it?) — oh, and:**

**V. says, “Now that that’s cleared up…”**

Craig does something he recalls seeing in movies. “Ah-ah,” he says, snapping his fingers in Stan’s face to get his attention. It works. “Not so fast, you haven’t answered any of our questions.”

“You’re a master deflector,” Tweek grunts. Then, to Craig: “He’s a master deflector, I don’t like that, I don’t like that one bit.”

 **Tweek:**  
**I. has a habit of pointing out the obvious, because**

**II. used to have to do it all the time.**

“I got it, babe,” Craig says.

 **Stan’s eyes:**  
**I. are blue**

**II. are naturally wide, and yet**

**III. [analysis paused]**

“Well? Spill," says Craig. "I’m not selling unless you’re telling.”

Stan takes a second to think. “I just want an out for a little bit, okay?” he finally says. “I’m not planning on killing myself, or overdosing, or whatever. Literally all I want is to not be in my own head for a few hours.”

And then, Stan shrugs.

Craig’s expression does something without his brain telling him to adjust.

 **The thing Craig was missing:**  
**I. Stan’s eyes reflect something more, which**

**II. makes him look more human, and**

**III. gives Craig something more interesting**

**(IV. Stan has experienced loneliness)**

**((V. Craig feels something.))**

**A Fun Fact, Revisited: Craig smirks when he’s nervous.**

“You realize a high is being inside your own head?”

“You know what I mean,” Stan says, rolling his eyes. Craig is distracted, until— “Um,” and then Stan starts to prod at the pink notebook. It’s his sister’s. Craig stole it, but Stan doesn’t know that. “What’s this got?”

Craig decides to joke. “Coke, you want a line?”

Stan’s reaction is hilarious. “Seriously?” he nearly chokes.

“No…” pause for effect. “You gotta pay before you get a line.”

Stan chokes again.

_This is fun._

Tweek sounds exasperated as he says, “Jesus, man, you’re gonna kill him at this rate. Stop messing with him, I don’t want to deal with a dead body.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Stan says. He, too, seems to have a habit of stating the obvious. “Is there cocaine in there, or are you shitting me?”

Craig makes a show of opening the stupid cat diary. When it’s open, he lifts up the package of mints. “Mentos,” he says, and pops one into his mouth. Stan’s looking at the pack like he wants one, so Craig offers one. Stan shakes his head, though, and Craig puts it— and the diary— away. “So, what kind of high are you looking for?”

“Umm…” Stan is nervously fidgeting, now. “I don’t know, what… uh, would you recommend?”

Craig can’t help it. He laughs. “What would I recommend? Wow, you really are new to this.”

 **Some things:**  
**I. a kid runs by the fence, which**

**II. catches Craig off-guard, and**

**III. forces him to try and re-calibrate.**

**(IV. Craig cracks his knuckles.)**

“This isn’t some high-end restaurant in Fairplay, you can’t just ask me my opinion on what tastes good," Craig says.

“Is that what you’d do?" Stan asks. "Like, you’d tell me what tastes good, instead of what would get me the high I want?”

“If I wanted to sell people good-tasting shit, I’d be selling my dick.”

Stan does the fish-mouth thing of his. He looks at Tweek, who must not have been paying attention. Tweek asks, “What? Why are you looking at me like that? Craig, why is he looking at me like that?”

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” Craig answers. He grabs his BS and flips it open. He retrieves his pencil— and flips to a new page.

**Fun Fact: 69 is Stan Marsh’s page number.**

“The answer is no, by the way,” Craig tells him, “But I also wouldn’t tell you what’ll give you the high you want, because I don’t know what type of high you want. So, you’re going to need to tell me what kind of high you want.”

“I don’t know. I just— I want to feel good, like, get out of my mind, I mean, I want to be in my head, but I want my head to not be my head, y’know?”

Craig looks up. Stan’s nervousness returns. The loneliness is still in his eyes.

“I want to… um, feel happy?” Stan continues, and Craig suddenly doesn’t like where the answer is going. “And, like, not think everything is bullshit… I want things to not be dull and shitty, I want to feel things, I don’t know how to get more specific than that.”

“Oh,” says Craig. He wants to say many things. He wants to tell Stan to see a therapist.

 **But:**  
**I. Craig needs the money, and**

**II. Craig feels too guilty to say it.**

Instead, he picks up the bag of ecstasy and says, “You want Methylenedioxymethamphetamine?”

The confused look is almost too much. Craig buries himself in the hatred of other people, and responds as coldly as possible.

“MDMA,” he clarifies, to no avail. Then, finally: “ _Ecstasy_.”

“Right.” Stan straightens up— in curiosity? In reassured bravado? “What’s it do?”

“It makes you feel really good. Like, really good, because, y’know, Ecstasy.”

If Craig believed in a God, he would definitely go to hell for this.

_Tweek. Help._

Tweek does.

“You don’t want that stuff,” he says. “Seriously, you don’t. The come-up is shit, and you only feel good for a couple of hours. Time feels all sped up, too, which just makes it feel like less.”

Craig hadn’t even thought of that. It makes him feel even worse, but he says, “Babe, you’re scaring off the customers. It’s bad for business.”

“He deserves to know the good and the bad, Craig! Some people throw up in the beginning. Some people get really fucking anxious during the come-up. Sometimes, the anxiety doesn’t go away— and god forbid you crash.”

“Whoa, hold on.” Stan glances between them. “What’s this about a crash?”

“Ha! The crash is fucked, man. It’s so fucked, I mean, Jesus, dude, you think you’re depressed now? You have no idea. You have _no idea._ ”

And that gets Stan defensive. Craig intrudes before Stan can say anything. “Babe, this is his first time. The odds of him totally crashing aren’t massive.”

“They’re still odds!” Tweek argues. “It’s not rare to crash your first time.”

“Everyone reacts differently. You had a bad experience, I know, but he might not.”

 **Please, Marsh:**  
**I. please please please**

**II. god**

**III. don’t have a bad experience.**

“Okay, maybe we should stick a pin in the Ecstasy for now,” Stan suggests.

Craig has never liked an idea more. “Okay, pin stuck in the E,” he says, and reluctantly looks through the other substances. What’s the safest bet? Craig pulls up a bag.

“This is lysergic acid diethylamide, but you probably know it as LSD.” Craig’s hands don’t want to work, so he sets the bag down on his knee. “It’s not physically addictive, and no one has ever died from overdosing on LSD, when it’s real LSD. And I promise you, this is real LSD. I test it myself.”

Stupid Stan asks, “You regularly take LSD?”

“No, dumbass, I test it. With a drug testing kit. I make sure no one’s fucking me over with any NBOMe bullshit…” Craig looks at the LSD uncertainly. He’d tested this batch. Right? Of course he did, he tests every batch. Kenny doesn’t sell NBOMe.

**Fun Fact: NBOMe can be lethal.**

“So… there’s no crash with LSD?” Stan asks, and the hope in his tone is misplaced. Craig sighs.

_Don’t do this, Stan. Idiot._

“Look,” and he picks the bag back up. “A big part in highs is mental attitude. If your outlook on life is shitty when you take a drug like LSD or MDMA, you’re probably gonna have a shitty time. But if you prepare, and if you understand the effects of what can happen before it does happen, your chances of a good experience increase significantly. That make sense?”

Stan nods.

“Good.” Craig flips the BS back open. He buries himself in it. “Based on the crappy information you gave me, I think your best bet is LSD.”

_Is that a white lie?_

“It can be intense, but I think you can handle it.”

_That’s a normal lie._

“If you’re careful and don’t take too much, you should be perfectly fine… hell, it might give you a breakthrough with whatever issues you’re wrestling right now.”

That’s doubtful, but he says that to everyone who buys LSD from him. It’s been known to happen.

Craig hooks the pencil on the page and grabs his little bags for making individual sales.

“I’m going to give you two of these,” Craig says, following through on his word. He puts two tabs into the bag. And, dammit, the money. He needs the money. That’s the whole goddamn point. How much is LSD? He doesn’t remember. His brain feels slow. He jokes with, “That’ll be a grand.”

Stan takes him literally and chokes on air.

“Gets ‘em every time,” Craig says, like he meant to do that. “No, but seriously, though, it’ll be, like, a hundred bucks.”

_There’s no way he carries around a hundred bucks. This wasn’t planned. There’s no way._

“Oh, uh…”

_Please don’t have a hundred bucks. I swear to god._

Stan doesn’t.

His hand is full of pocket change and a bottle of Aspirin.

“How about, um… eleven fifty, and some Aspirin?” Stan suggests.

"Funny." Fuck, the Aspirin is tempting, but Craig isn’t going to budge. “Where’s the other eighty-eight fifty?”

Stan says it’s in his other pants. Craig calls bullshit.

“You don’t have the money, do you?”

“Well— no, I didn’t exactly plan on buying LSD today.” Stan puts money back, but keeps the Aspirin in his hand. Interesting. “But I can get it.”

Craig grunts.

Stan tries to pull a fast one. “Don’t you drug dealers, like, give out free samples?”

Craig thoughtlessly repeats his usual spiel for the question. “Street dealers do that sometimes, with things like coke and heroin. You know why they do that?”

Stan stays silent.

“So they can get you hooked. It’s a smart business strategy, but it’s shitty. Hard drugs are shitty. I’m not about to supply some dickhead’s meth habit,” Craig says. At the mention of meth, Stan looks at Tweek. Something inside of Craig— the tension, all of it at once— snaps. He leans forward, adding, “Hey, don’t look at my boyfriend when I say that, you _dick_.”

Stan meekly apologizes. Craig isn’t happy, but he accepts it nonetheless.

“Anyway, my point is, I don’t sell hardcore shit. I leave that to the psychopaths on the streets.”

**Fun Fact: People think Craig is a psychopath.**

Craig returns to page 69. “Also, my point is, get me the money.”

By which, of course, he means, _Don’t get me the money._

“I’ll hold onto your order for a week. _One week._ After that, you’ve lost the deal, and any purchases you make will be on hold for a month.”

Stan doesn’t like the sound of it, which furthers a fact.

**Fun Fact: Stan is impulse-buying.**

“So, what?” Stan asks, clearly agitated. “I either buy shit from you by next Wednesday, or I’m blocked from your services? Maybe that’s what’s scaring away your customers.”

“If you want the drugs, you’ll get the money," Craig says. "If you don’t, you won’t, and you’ll probably still be squeaky clean by the end of the year.”

Stan is still agitated. “How do you know that?”

“Trust me." Craig glances away. "I know.”

 **Craig’s strategy is to:**  
**I. weed out the impulse-buyers, like Stan**

**II. by imposing fake, inflated prices so they’ll have to sleep on it, which**

**III. makes the information process more fully in the buyer’s brain, and**

**IV. almost always results in a back-out.**

**Fun Fact: Craig does not pride himself on taking advantage of people. If it happens, it’s because it was absolutely necessary— and if it’s absolutely necessary, it’s because Craig dug himself into a hole. Essentially, Craig is wholly responsible.**

Craig tucks the BS into his messenger bag, checks for any drugs left out, and pushes up from the ground. He lifts the bag onto his shoulder.

Tweek is playing with a boxelder bug.

Craig could cry.

Stan doesn’t look much better.

Craig feels an impulse. He follows it. He presses a hand to Stan’s shoulder. Stan turns around.

 **Those eyes:**  
**I. are so lonely.**

“Hey,” Craig says. “Don’t just take my word for it. Do some research on this shit, Stan.”

“I will," Stan says.

**Fun fact: Craig knows Stan won’t.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	27. Act IV Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happens.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Tweek asks. He’s since come down from his high. It’s approaching four, and as they make their way to the softball field, he grabs Craig’s hand in his own. Craig appreciates the gesture, and tries to lace their fingers together, but the position of their hands is all wrong. He can’t figure out the logistics of it. He gives up. He’d completely forgotten that Tweek had spoken, until Tweek repeats, “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

Craig kind of wants to say “no”, just so see what Tweek’s reaction would be. He doesn’t, of course. Craig doesn’t lie unless it gets him something, and what would this get him? Pity? He doesn’t want pity. “I’ll be fine,” he answers. They approach the field quickly. A few feet away from the sports shed, Tweek checks his watch and makes a noise.

“Shit, I’m gonna be late,” he mumbles, frowning.

**Fun Fact: Tweek goes to the gym with Kenny, sometimes.**

“I wanted to stay and watch,” Tweek adds. Craig can’t tell if he’s saying that to be nice, or if he genuinely did plan on watching. Either way, though, the result is the same.

 **The result:**  
**I. Tweek apologizes**

**II. Tweek squeezes Craig’s hand**

**III. Tweek kisses Craig’s cheek, and**

**IV. Tweek leaves.**

Craig watches him leave. He isn’t upset that Tweek had to go. He likes the fact that Tweek does things on his own. It’s a huge step up from where he used to be. There would be days where Tweek wouldn’t even be able to speak, let alone go somewhere so public like the gym. Craig is happy for Tweek. Very, very, very happy. He is. He really is.

**Fun Fact: The meeting with Stan is still messing with Craig.**

Craig removes his baseball cap. He holds it in the same hand he holds his glove. He runs his fingers through his hair. It’s getting long. He should get it cut, but he hates going to the stupid hairdresser. She always insists on putting stupid _product_ in his hair after cutting it, which only makes it sticky and painful to touch. He always spends two hours trying to get the stupid shit out. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

 **Stupid:**  
**I. stupid**

**II. stupid**

**III. stupid.**

It’s cold. There shouldn’t be practice today, but Coach wants to make sure they get enough hours in. For what, Craig doesn’t know— there is no hour quota. There’s no quota for anything. Coach doesn’t make sense, but Craig doesn’t give a damn. Coach isn’t interesting. Coach isn’t interesting at all.

Something happens. Craig doesn’t know what, but something happens, and it freaks Craig out.

He feels sick to his stomach. How long has he been standing here? What time is it?

Craig stares into the grass. He doesn’t know how to put words into the things going through his brain. He lacks the energy to do so, anyway. He decides it doesn’t really matter. Someone calls his name, but he doesn’t look up. There’s frost over by the side of the road, a few hundred yards or so to the left. The weather keeps swinging. It can’t decide if it wants to snow or not. It snows in the morning, but melts by the afternoon, leaving only pieces of still-frozen crap.

Someone— the same someone who called his name— sneaks up behind him and pushes him in the side. It hurts, and Craig is sick and tired of that stupid shit already. He’s sick and fucking tired of it.

 **Craig:**  
**I. jams his elbow as hard as he can into the person’s side.**

It’s Clyde. He makes a grunting noise, but otherwise doesn’t react. Clyde is on the football team, and he can’t dodge a ball to save his life. He takes blunt force trauma daily. A little nudge like that won’t do much. Craig doesn’t expect it to.

“Dude, what crawled up your ass?” Clyde asks, leaning in to look at Craig. Craig turns his head so he won’t have to look at Clyde’s stupid face. Clyde makes another exasperated noise. “Duuude, seriously, Coach is getting mad! We gotta get to—”

“Tell him I quit.”

Clyde freezes. Craig does, too, but he’s more subtle about it. Something in Clyde’s face falls, like he doesn’t understand what he just heard. Knowing him, that’s exactly what’s going on in his brain. A lack of understanding. “What?” Clyde asks. He almost sounds hurt. “Craig, bro, why would you wanna qui—”

Craig shoves his glove and cap into Clyde’s hands, who takes them out of sheer shock. “Tell him I quit,” Craig repeats. Clyde opens his mouth to protest, and he says a few words that probably translate roughly to _wait you idiot_ , but Craig has already started to walk away. Thankfully, Clyde doesn’t even try to follow.

Craig’s thoughts aren’t making sense. His emotions aren’t pairing up correctly. There’s a disconnect. Somewhere in his brain, something has gone wrong. It feels familiar, but at the same time, he doesn’t know why. Something about Stan. Something about Stan. There is no logic behind it. Maybe he’s guilty. Maybe Craig feels guilty. Maybe he should stop by Stan’s place. Maybe he should apologize, even though he doesn’t know what to apologize for. Maybe he should have offered his number, or asked if he was okay, because he sure as hell didn’t _look it._

Craig pushes his hands into his pockets. He keeps his pace leisurely. He can’t pinpoint the cause. He can’t pinpoint the inciting thought, he can’t pinpoint the thing that’s making him feel like—

Feel like—?

Fucking…

He doesn’t know.

Craig doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really know why he quit the team. He had no reason to. It’s one of the only things that keeps him sane, but it… feels like too much. It’s a lot of input. It’s focused input, and he can compartmentalize focused input easily, but it’s still a lot.

It’s too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	28. Act IV Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It just irritates him.

When he gets home, Craig doesn’t kick off his shoes. He doesn’t lock the door, he doesn’t change out of his softball outfit. He doesn’t do anything, really. He doesn’t _want_ to do anything, so why should he? His mother is at work, his father is still working evenings at a local warehouse, and his sister is probably in her room listening to moody music. At least she has the decency to wear headphones.

Pandora is there to greet him at the door, wagging her tail. Her tongue lolls playfully out of her mouth and she breathes heavy dog breaths. She nudges her nose against his knees until he bends over to give her pets— but he doesn’t stop there.

Craig sits on the floor on his knees. He gives Pandora the scratches she loves behind the ears, and pets down her back and sides and neck and fluffs the fur in his fingers. She playfully nips at his hands. She’s playing with him, and he lets her indulge in the excitement of the attention. She deserves it. Eventually, she sits, too. Her tail is still wagging, thumping rhythmically against the carpet like a metronome.

Against his better judgment, Craig wraps his arms around her. He presses his face into her coat. He’s hugging her. It makes him feel guilty. He read somewhere— or maybe he heard it, he can’t remember the exact media— that dogs don’t like being hugged. It increases their stress levels because they are deprived of their ability to run away in case of a threat. The conflict is difficult to bear. He wants to hug her, it makes him feel better, but at the same time, he can’t stand the idea of her feeling anxious.

Craig lets her go. He pulls away. She doesn’t look unhappy.

 **She:**  
**I. has her ears up**

**II. is wagging her tail, and**

**III. is looking at him.**

**She is not:**  
**I. yawning**

**II. licking her lips, or**

**III. turning away.**

Pandora prods at his bicep with her nose when he starts to rub at his arms. She’s telling him to stop. She’s telling him to quit that, before it makes him feel worse, because that’s what it always does. As much as he loves to claim otherwise, the self-soothing action isn’t self-soothing. It just irritates him. It’s a physical manifestation of the things in his head that he can’t get out, and—

She nudges him again. This time, he stops. She’s looking up at him with those eyes. He hasn’t pinpointed a meaning behind the expression, and he hasn’t given it a name. All he knows is, when she makes those eyes at him, he feels guilty. Like he did something wrong. Unforgivable.

Craig forces himself to stand. He kicks off his shoes, and takes off his over-shirt, leaving him with only the thin teeshirt and the stupid softball uniform pants. He has to do… things. He hasn’t thought that far ahead, yet. He needs time to just… not. He needs time to breathe. He needs room.

It’s one of those rare days, where he wants to hole himself in the dark of his room and ignore everything else. He doesn’t have anything in particular that he wants to do, but sleeping kind of sounds nice. He’s still cold from the mid-winter weather.

He starts up the steps, and makes a point of ignoring the way the lights offend his eyes. He ignores the pressure in his ears that translates into ringing, and he ignores the weird blurring feeling. Pandora follows him up the steps, her collar jingling the whole way up. He ignores that, too. When he gets to his bedroom, he changes into something more comfortable, crawls into bed, and pulls the blankets over his body.

 **The planets, in order from the sun, pt 1:**  
**I. Mercury**

**II. Venus**

**III. Earth**

Pandora hops into bed with him.

 **The planets, in order from the sun, pt. 2:**  
**IV. Mars**

**V. Jupiter**

**VI. Saturn**

He knows she isn’t allowed in the bed with him, but he doesn’t care. The pressure of her head on his chest is nice. Her presence beside him is more than welcome.

 **The planets, in order from the sun, pt. 3:**  
**VII. Uranus**

**VIII. Neptune**

Quiet.

**Fun Fact: He’s still wide awake.**

Craig rubs his eyes. He’s tired. He would really like to go to sleep. It’s been a long day. He kind of needs the rest.

He needs to talk.

Craig curls his fingers into Pandora’s fur, petting her. She looks up at him. She’s listening. Or maybe not, but it couldn’t hurt to talk to Pandora, right?

“Hi, Pandora,” he greets. She doesn’t do anything, just keeps staring. Stan worms his way into Craig’s thoughts, again, and it feels stupid. Like, really fucking stupid. Moronically ridiculously idiotically stupid. But he can’t help but feel like… “I think Stan knows how it feels.”

Pandora shifts, kicking her legs into the covers for a moment. He lets her get comfy.

“I think he knows how it feels to be lonely while with a lot of other people,” Craig elaborates. It’s nice to let it all out. “I think he knows what it’s like to feel…”

Different.

But Craig can’t say it. For, to say it would to be to acknowledge it, and to acknowledge it would mean to confirm it, and to confirm it would mean admitting. It would mean admitting that he’s, maybe, just maybe, not exactly on the same level as everyone else. It would mean admitting maybe— _just maybe_ — that he’s not the way he always assumed he was? Like, he grew up thinking he worked one way, the normal way, but if… he doesn’t, then… what does that make him?

Why doesn’t he feel comfortable trying to fit in? Why does he feel like he’s faking? And why is he so _stupidly, stupidly, stupidly_ hung up on being different?

Is it selfish? Is he selfish?

Craig decides.

 **Craig decides:**  
**I. he is selfish, because**

**II. he just wants to feel like he belongs, and**

**III. how would he feel he didn’t belong, if**

**IV. he weren’t selfish?**

**Furthermore:**  
**I. Craig is**

**II. just being**

**III. a pussy.**

“I think I’m probably just stupid,” Craig hums. It feels a lot less personal than he thought it would. He pats Pandora’s head, gently. “I hate stupid people.”

  
**END OF ACT FOUR**  
**“Spontaneous”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	29. Intermission IV

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A PURPOSEFULLY PERPLEXING MOUNTAIN — NIGHT**

In the scene, a teenage boy tries to adjust. The difference in the mountain, still lingering like something foreign, is just another hurdle in his life. He admonishes the responsibility of trying to change it, and instead decides it does not exist. It’s juvenile, he knows, but he’s lost the patience to shove so much energy into the comprehension of what’s gone wrong. If he just pretends, just for a little bit, just for a few more seconds— for a few more minutes— he can live the rest of his life peacefully, wonderfully, blissfully ignorant.

With his hands, he expresses as much. He tracks their movements in the air and describes the rolling hills of the mountaintop. They do nothing for his mental state, nor do they allow him much respite, but it is a way to abscond in a very mental, purely internal way. The more he thinks about it, though, the more he can’t stop falling. Falling into the past thoughts, the ones that ask him _what what what_ and _why why why_ and how _how how ~~(could you?)~~._

He says he feels a little tipsy, drinking from a cup that’s empty, describing things that are so hollow and simultaneously drowning. And maybe it’s fear, or maybe it’s panic, or maybe it’s just boredom, but the thoughts regress him back to the spaces he hates to acknowledge. He’s back to admonishing, back to forcing away the pangs of sensation: horror, disgust, the added nausea and dread. Leaves on bushes surround him, scrape the air, capture wind, breeze breathes breathlessly, breathing broken barely-based; bad and blown and back-boned, restless and…

The energy leaves, the mountain twitches. He claws at the thoughts and claws at the meaning, for surely there is something there he can cling to, grip in his nails and picture and _know_. This pain the missing thing on the mountain is causing agonizes him. Something so physical must be feasible, at least. It has to be. There’s no way it’s just mental, there’s no way it’s just a reaction to a single thing that happened, no way. There is a line— a fine one, at that— which divides the _in_ from the _sane_. A syllable, or something. A dot. He clings to that.

The dot.

It is a reminder of something that makes him sick with hatred. He rips it away. With it, the mountain snaps.

The small stage of the school’s East-wing forum hurts. It presses into his knees, and it takes him a moment to recognize the fact that he’s kneeling. The lights are dim. He blinks away the lingering stretch of mountain, which is difficult because of the dark, but he supposes that’s what he gets for falling so deeply into something he didn’t even really want to _do_ in the first place.

Tweek shuffles forward and hops off the tiny stage. It’s just a platform, really, and a crappy one at that. It hasn’t been fixed, and there are chips in the front where kids have shuffled carelessly across for the speech rewards at the end of the year.

This was not his best performance, and Tweek knows that very well. He’s just glad that he didn’t have an audience. Not in a traditional sense, at least. Butters was there. He’d insisted on coming along when he overheard Tweek asking one of the custodians if he could use the forum during his third period, which he had free. Butters skipped a class for this, which Tweek feels only a little guilty about. He used to be a lot more concerned with other people and their success, but now he’s more focused on his own. He can’t keep holding everyone else up. He has to finish a monologue by the end of the semester, and he hasn’t found any solid leads… how is he supposed to focus energy on the concern of other people?

That thought, more than anything else, makes Tweek feel like he needs to disappear.

Slowly, Butters starts to clap. The sound gets louder as he approaches from the back of the forum, and those little claps are ridiculously gentle and lighthearted. It’s sweet, really; it’s almost endearing.

“That was really good!” Butters says, plopping down into the chair in front of Tweek, who had grabbed his thermos from his backpack and swallowed a hefty swig of his drink. Butters kicks his legs up into the air childishly, watching as Tweek screws the lid back onto the container. Butters’ eyes are squinted in delight. “And you did that on the spot? Like, improvised?”

Tweek’s breath rushes out at the word. He plays it off as an impromptu cough and immediately opens the thermos again. He takes a larger drink of it.

(It’s water— Craig made him give up coffee after he fainted from overdoing it. His heart had sped up so much, he became lightheaded. He didn’t _mean_ to— hell, he didn’t even know that could happen. He was just twelve.)

“Yeah,” Tweek answers. That gets Butters excited again, and he’s back to clapping.

“Wow, that’s amazing! A lot better than I could ever do.” There’s a distinct admiration in Butters’ eyes. Tweek finds it funny, but not laughable. He smiles without really meaning to, yet it still somehow feels forced. “It felt like I was really experiencing a bunch of emotion.”

Maybe it’s stupid, but Tweek asks, “What emotion?”

Butters makes a soft “oh!” noise, then dips his head in thought. He raps his knuckles together, knocking his fists into each other. Then, he perks up. “I’d say fear, mostly, and confusion… but the good kind,” he says. “Y’know, the kind that I know why I’m confused, but also don’t know… awh, that didn’t make sense, did it?”

“No,” Tweek cuts in. “It did, it made sense, don’t worry.”

"It might sound a little weird, but..." Butters trails off, pursing his lips in thought. Tweek drinks more water. His throat is parched, and his tongue feels wrong. He tastes blood, but he knows it’s phantom. That doesn’t stop him from trying to wash it away. Butters begins to speak again, saying, "I kinda felt like there was a secret I couldn't tell anyone."

“Don't worry, that's not weird, Butters,” Tweek says. His nails tap, a little harsh in their noise, against the metal of the thermos. The taste comes back, stronger this time. With a frown, he rephrases it— “It's not weird at all.”

  
**BEGIN ACT FIVE**  
**“Comets”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	30. Case Study #5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Eric Cartman

**CASE STUDY #5:**  
**ERIC THEODORE CARTMAN**

_Some very important facts about: Eric Cartman_

_Eric Cartman is a natural brunette, with brown eyes, and extra weight. Some argue he’s actually strawberry blond. This argument is incorrect, though Eric Cartman did go through a phase in which he tried to brush it off as factual. No one knows why. Eric Cartman is unpredictable like that._

A late-night text message inspired the thought of a restock. Craig told McCormick to meet him after school, but McCormick refused on the grounds of other plans. He said he would send someone in his stead. Craig didn’t like the cryptic bullshit. He refused to meet this mystery person in the dealing alcove, because that is his domain, and he does not like it when people tread in his domain.

To make it less personal, Craig decides to perform the operation at home. He feigns a migraine to his mother to stay home. He has experienced enough (at least one a month for the past six years) of them to be able to fake them accurately. In a way, he wasn’t even lying. He _did_ have a headache. He just didn’t have a migraine.

Yes. There is a difference— a big one. He’ll take a headache over a migraine any day.

There’s a stiffness in his neck. It hurts, but it’s only vaguely annoying. It’s one of those pains that is so minimal it’s almost unbearable. Maybe that is agitation. He doesn’t know. Whatever it is, Craig stays home. Cartman comes by at the instructed time (9:21 AM). The house is empty. It is perfectly planned.

But Craig is not pleased.

_Side Note: Eric Cartman would definitely whore himself out for money._

Cartman steps in and asks, “So where’s your stupid stash, Craig?”

Craig says, “None of your business.”

Cartman argues, “It’s all of my business, neuro, now where’s your stash?”

Craig wants to hit Cartman. Contrarily, he does not want to get expelled from the school. This isn’t school property, though. Would it count? Oh, yes it would. The school would find a way. The school hates Craig. Most of the adults hate Craig, actually. He still doesn’t know why.

Craig says, “I should be the one asking you that.”

Cartman thinks it is a joke. Cartman laughs. Cartman drops onto the couch. Something in his coat crinkles. Craig doesn’t expect him to hold open his stupid letterman jacket like a creep in a trench coat, but he does.

Cartman asks, “You want some candy?” and shakes the fabric he holds open. The bag, stuffed in an inside pocket (left), threatens to tumble.

Craig snaps, “Fucking stop, okay? You’re going to drop something and kill Pandora.”

Cartman makes a face. He asks, “Kill who the fuck now?”

Craig does not answer. He holds his hand out for the package. Cartman does not give it up. Instead, he grins smugly.

Cartman says, “What’s in it for me?”

_Relationship: Eric Cartman is insufferable. I do not associate myself with him, if I can help it._

Craig says, “Nothing.”

Cartman scoffs, “Oh, bullshit! I’m gonna get something, _Craig_ , I don’t make deals without payment.”

Craig asks him what he wants. Cartman tells him he wants ten million dollars. Craig tells him he left the ten million in his vacation home, but he has Doritos.

Cartman says, “You’re really breaking my balls, here.”

Craig grunts. He says, “This isn’t your fucking business, anyway, it’s McCormick’s.”

Cartman ignores that. He stands from the couch. He drops his jacket, brushes himself off, and says, “I guess I’ll be leaving, then.”

No.

Cartman won’t be leaving.

Craig draws a deep breath and says, calm, “I have pictures.”

Cartman halts, mid-stride to the front door. He spins. He looks at Craig. Those brown eyes of his are vapid. He asks, “Pictures?” through closed teeth.

Craig confirms, “Pictures.”

Cartman asks, “Of what, Gaylord?”

Craig says, “Stan and Kyle fagging out.”

There is a moment (35.2 seconds) of silence.

Craig simply watches. Cartman does, too.

Then, with a grin, Cartman says, “That’ll do, Craigy, that’ll do.”

_Footnote: Eric Cartman has been, and always will be, nothing but trouble._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	31. Act V Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ache is all he can focus on.

The migraine Craig faked in order to stay home does not remain fictional. It blossoms into something very real, very quickly. It thrums a steady cold-hot throughout his skull, pounding itself like a jackhammer behind his right eye and down to the base of his neck. Sitting up hurts, but moving hurts worse, which gives him quite the predicament.

 **The predicament:**  
**I. it is nearing noon**

**II. Craig is home alone, and**

**III. he made a very big mistake.**

Craig shifts, very very gently, in his desk chair. The infinitesimal tense of his muscles sends a stabbing wave of pain deep into his head. He wants to clench at the arms of the chair, but he knows better. The tension from that would only worsen it further, which doesn’t _feel_ possible, but he knows definitely _is_. He has experience with this shit. He knows what his body can handle. He’s only halfway up the threshold of pain which he’s able to experience.

It can— and will— get worse. Craig forms a plan.

 **His plan:**  
**I. he needs his medication, which**

**II. is downstairs, so**

**III. he will carefully make his way down for it, and**

**IV. come back up to sleep it off.**

If he does this quickly, he can manage without hiccups. He’s done it before. He likes to say he’ll never have to do it again, but he knows that’s not true. He always forgets the medication somewhere inconvenient, and it only seems to hit horribly suddenly when he doesn’t have anyone around to help him. Which, admittedly, he’s grateful for.

**Fun Fact: Craig hates it when people are around to see him struggle.**

Craig gingerly stands from his desk, paying no attention to the book he’d been reading. He leaves it open on the surface. He leaves his room. So far so good. Only pain is there. No nausea, no dizziness, and his hands haven’t started to tingle or anything, so he can still grab things. Always a good thing. He ultimately feels like a normal human, he’s just in a very substantial amount of pain for _seemingly_ no reason.

The sunlight hurts his eyes. It worsens the pounding. He trips on his own feet halfway down the stairs, which catches him off guard. He manages to grab the banister before he falls, though, so he’s safe. It makes a lot of noise, but he’s safe.

Pandora darts out of the office at the clatter, and starts up the steps. He tells her to _stop_ and _stay_ and offers a quick _good girl_ when she obeys, plopping herself down at the bottom step. He keeps a firm hold on the banister as he descends. He doesn’t want to end up falling again. He doesn’t know how sturdy his hold will be if he does, and once the adrenaline from near-injury wears off, he’ll be feeling the pain in significantly sharper increments.

Momentarily, Craig forgets about Pandora. He uses the wall for support once he’s away from the steps, keeping himself upright through the sturdiness of it. It’s reliable. He appreciates it. He decides, if he ever has to make an acceptance speech, he will thank the walls for always being there when he was on the verge of falling on his face. Helpful, helpful walls— fuck, fuck, fuck, his head hurts. He needs to stop. He needs a break.

Craig halts. The suddenness is not a good idea. It screams through his brain like a… something heavy that goes really fast. What’s the word he’s looking for? Fuck it, it doesn’t matter, anyway. Images work better for thoughts.

He whimpers. It’s embarrassing, and he’s even more pleased with the fact that no one is around to hear him sound so pathetic. It’s weak, he knows, but it hurts. _It hurts_. And for a minute, that’s all he can think. _It hurts. It hurts. It hurts._ He whimpers again with a new wave of sensory overload— so much it blinds and numbs him. When he’s back to feeling more or less lucid, Pandora is weaving around his feet and nosing at his legs, pawing at his thighs and licking his hand, which dangles at his side. He mumbles something that is incoherent. It’s mostly just a noise of acknowledgment, really. A nonverbal _thanks, Pan, you’re really helping me and I appreciate it._

With renewed energy, Craig slowly advances into the kitchen to find his medication. For a second, he can’t remember where it is. He turns himself around in the kitchen until he loses himself, dizzy and lethargic in a way that’s only strange because he’s— well, _lethargic_ , and that’s kind of the point. Words stop incorporating themselves into his mind. He keeps swapping through images of where he last saw the bottle. He sees the colors, and he sees the contours, and he knows where it is, _he knows_ , but he can’t match his brain picture with the real-life picture. It’s really quite infuriating.

Craig’s legs threaten to give out. He’s been standing for too long, and he’s in too much pain. He’s become weak. The ache is all he can focus on. Blood feels like it’s rushing, cold through his veins. He catches himself on the counter, focusing on nothing but getting through this wave. When it passes, he realizes he’s become lightheaded. That’s not good. How is he supposed to focus on finding the bottle if he can’t even think straight? See straight? What does lightheaded mean? What is…

Again, his knees buckle. It’s all he can do to grip at the counter top, curling his fingers into the surface to steady himself. He’s fine. He can do this. Mind over matter. Just reach. You know where it is, Craig, just reach. Just grab it. Just take the medication. Then, go to the couch and sleep for a few hours.

Pandora swirls around his feet again, and he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that, because he is suddenly very aware of the fact that he cannot, in fact, do this. He needs a break, at least. And a break means no moving. Pandora, though, is making that very difficult. She keeps nosing him, which makes him flinch, which makes the pain worse. What is she doing? He can’t remember what it means when she does this. Is there a meaning? He suddenly feels very… he doesn’t…

Heat overwhelms him, and his vision crystallizes. His eyes keep trying to close. He feels himself stumble. Pandora barks. She’s too close, she’s in the direction his body is going to fall. It’s with hollow thoughts that Craig tries to nudge her out of the way, so she doesn’t get hurt. She’s stronger than he is, though. His muscles refuse to work. The pain is too much. He needs his medication. Where is it? His legs feel tingly. His hands feel numb. Why is he still standing? Right. Medication. Where is it again?

Finally, Craig’s ability to stand decides to ditch him. He tumbles to his knees, and his arms come into contact with Pandora’s body. Pandora is strong, and she can handle him falling on her, but even so, he makes the conscious effort to avoid collapsing too hard. Most of his weight goes to his knees, which hit the tile sharply. His fingers curl in Pandora’s fur, petting her even as he partially leans on her. He presses his forehead against her neck in apology.

Craig slowly lets go of Pandora and adjusts until he can lay down on the ground properly. The tile is nice on the bare skin of his hands and the back of his neck. It soothes some of the ache, but only for a moment. Then it’s back to roaring in numb torrents. He breathes. It’s all he can do.

He thinks he falls asleep for a few seconds, but he’s not entirely sure. He just knows that, when he opens his eyes again, Pandora is on top of him and licking his face like she usually does when it gets bad like that. Like this.

He hates this. He hates it more than anything. He hates feeling weak, physically and emotionally, and he hates feeling different, physically and emotionally. He’s just glad this hasn’t happened out in public. That would be a fucking nightmare. He would never live that down.

Craig Tucker, South Park’s own “apathetic drug-dealer” (thanks, Wendy), whines and faints from pain like a total bitch.

Feeling a little better, Craig lifts a hand to stroke Pandora’s coat. He wracks his brain for the thing he’s trying to remember. After a few seconds, he gets it. He snaps his fingers, gestures towards the counter, and says, “Comets.”

Pandora slides off of him and moves to the counter. While she does that, Craig pushes himself up from the floor. He leans his back against the wall, doing his best to blink away the lingering faintness. Pandora trots back over with the bottle of medication held in her mouth. He holds out his hand. She drops it into his palm. He pets her head.

“Good girl,” he says, voice almost inaudible. “Good girl, thank you.”

She pants and crawls over his legs, applying pressure over him. He didn’t have to tell her to do that. She just did it. She knows him really well.

The pain rolls back over him. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from any accidental whines. He doesn’t want to freak Pandora out, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself anymore. This is getting ridiculous. It’s frustrating. He hates this so fucking much. Fucking fucking fucking fuck.

He unscrews the cap from the bottle, and dumps a tablet out in his palm. He inadvertently tries to tip his head back, but the pain stops him short. He hisses. Pandora paws his knee. He puts the tab into his mouth and waits for it to dissolve. He’s lucky this stuff comes in dissolving tablets. Otherwise, he’d be in serious trouble.

**Fun Fact: Craig can’t swallow pills.**

With his last efforts of strength, Craig replaces the cap and puts the bottle onto the counter. The relaxation after so much issue is settling in, giving him an undeniable throbbing that refuses to go away. It’s quick, sticking in his head: _bam-bam-bam._

Craig lowers himself back down to lay on the floor. The back of his head meets the cold tiles. His back straightens out. Pandora squirms her way beneath his legs, essentially acting as a stool of some sort under his knees. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s lethargic or what, but he doesn’t understand why she’s doing that.

Whatever. He tells her she’s a good girl. Pandora is his hero. Her tail thumps against the floor. Craig closes his eyes.

Screw the plan. He falls asleep, right there, in the middle of the kitchen, and he gives zero fucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	32. Act V Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room comes into more focus.

Craig wakes up to the distinct feeling of someone poking his nose. It’s unpleasant at best, and absolutely agitating at worst, but he doesn’t display any outward signs of it— not for lack of willingness, though. If he had the strength— or maybe if he gave more a damn—, he would definitely growl and tell them to fuck off. The point is he doesn’t, which probably just gives them more incentive to keep prodding at his face.

“Craig? Can you hear me, dude?” the person asks.

At first, Craig thinks it might be his sister. That thought is thrown out the window when he realizes this person’s voice is much too deep to be his sister’s. It’s a guy. One of his friends, no doubt, though he can’t figure out how they managed to get in. It has to be Tweek, then. Tweek has a key. Tweek’s the only one with a key.

“Craig,” they repeat. There’s more poking. It’s riling up Craig’s nerves, making his skin feel twitchy and his shoulders feel uncomfortable. Then, tellingly, they whine: “Craaaig.”

Craig opens his eyes. He has to blink rapidly just to keep them open, which just goes to show how much energy he’s garnered since he was last conscious. His arms feel loose, his back hurts, and the hard surface he’s laying on has numbed his hips. Christ. He needs to get up, go to bed, lay on a proper mattress. He has to _at least_  sit down on the couch. There are a lot of things he has to do, but he can’t do any of them. The thinking feels like enough for him, really. Maybe he can just…

“Hey! Don’t die on me, bro!”

Clyde pats Craig’s cheek, just firmly enough to keep him awake. Craig both resents and appreciates it. He can feel his arm lifting up, probably of his own accord, but he doesn’t know what he’s trying to do. He grabs the fabric of Clyde’s jacket, which is rough and leathery underneath his fingers. The muscle in Clyde’s arm tenses.

 **Observation:**  
**I. Clyde was… um.**

**II. no no, Clyde…**

**III. um…**

**IV. Craig doesn’t know.**

“Craig, hey, open your eyes, ‘kay? Can you hear me? Come to my voice, don’t go into the light.”

With much reluctance, Craig forces himself to open his eyes. The sunlight is blinding. It’s aggravating the lethargy that lingers. His hand falls away from Clyde’s arm in favor of rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself up more fully. It helps, but only a bit. His arm falls to his chest. Dazed, he tries to solidify Clyde in his gaze. Clyde hovers over him. His face is fuzzy. Blurred. Clyde is touching his forehead. A bit of his energy is renewed, and with that, Craig tries to push his hand away. Clyde makes a noise.

“Welcome to the land of the living!” he says. Craig doesn’t respond. Clyde moves on. “Dude, can you, like, say something? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“Fuck you,” Craig says. Clyde is pleased with that.

“Okay, cool, c’mon, let’s get you up, yeah?”

And then Clyde is slipping his hand underneath Craig’s neck, essentially supporting his head so Craig doesn’t have to strain the nerves back into overdrive as he sits up. Clyde’s help doesn’t stop there, though. His other hand hooks behind Craig’s shoulders, making sure he has a sturdy lean in case he goes all rag-doll, or whatever.

The room comes into more focus. Pandora is padding quietly around the kitchen, looping around them in a circle, protective. She stays close to Craig, just in case, but with another person there to take control of the situation, she’s a lot less stressed.

Craig decides enough is enough and forces himself to start standing. He scrabbles for purchase on anything he can grab— which, in this case, is Clyde’s shoulders— to support himself on shaky legs. Clyde makes a disapproving noise and stands with him. Craig, more or less fine to stand on his own, lets go of Clyde and starts on his way out of the kitchen. Clyde grabs his wrist, which almost makes him fall, but Clyde catches him.

He takes Craig’s right arm and loops it around the back of his neck. Craig feels Clyde wrap an arm behind his back, grabbing his side and supporting him. To Craig’s chagrin, Clyde is the one who leads the way out of the kitchen.

“Why…” Craig is trying, but can’t put his mouth to work properly. “Why, uh… why?”

Clyde gets it. “You’re weak, man, I’m not gonna let you just fuckin’… like…” Clyde sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry, like that explains it. “Y’know?”

Craig doesn’t know, but he also doesn’t push it. He sees the stairs and immediately starts for them. Clyde seems a little reluctant, but he doesn’t protest to Craig’s wishes. They begin slowly up the stairs, taking it one step at a time. They don’t rush it. A sudden warmth cascades through Craig’s mouth. Distantly, he thinks, _I’ve felt that before_. “I’m gonna puke,” Craig says.

“No, you’re not,” Clyde says.

“Yes, I am,” says Craig. Another step. His stomach hurts. Clyde adjusts his grip on Craig, supporting him more fully.

“No, you’re not,” repeats Clyde. “You say that every time, and you never do, so, no, you’re not gonna toss your cookies.”

There’s a fact there, but Craig’s brain doesn’t work well enough for him to retrieve it. A few more steps, and they’ve made it. The carpet shuffles as they walk, still slow in practice. Craig can hear Pandora trotting along behind them. Clyde pushes Craig’s bedroom door open more with his foot. Craig tries to pull away from Clyde, but Clyde doesn’t let him. Clyde brings him all the way to the bed, and even does that stupid nurse-helping-you-into-a-car thing.

 **The steps of the nurse-helping-you-into-a-car thing:**  
**I. Nurse supports Patient by keeping hold under arms on ribs**

**II. Nurse slowly turns Patient around until Patient’s back is turned to car**

**III. Patient sits sideways in car’s seat**

**IV. Patient puts feet into car, one at a time**

**V. Nurse helps buckle Patient in, and**

**VI. sends them off on their merry way.**

Craig has medical experience with that shit. He doesn’t like reliving it.

Craig has the sudden urge to thank Clyde for all of his trouble.

“I hate you,” Craig says. Clyde understands.

“Hate you, too, bro,” Clyde replies. He’s grinning, tugging the blanket up from the foot of the bed as he does. Craig would help, but he doesn’t really care. He’s too busy shielding his eyes from the light that’s shedding into his bedroom through the window. “Do you want the blanket?”

“No,” Craig answers. He feels hot. He would sooner punch himself in the face than wrap up in wool.

(It isn’t wool, but that’s not the point.)

 

 

Craig doesn't know how to feel about that, so he decides he's okay with it. His brain is working a little better, now. With only mild difficulty, Craig manages to ask Clyde why he’s here. Clyde grins wider, arms full of blanket.

“Because I knew this would happen,” Clyde says. “And I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Craig asks how he knew.

“Oh, come on, dude! You not showing up to school was a dead giveaway… but, really, I knew it’d happen after you tried to quit the team the other day,” explains Clyde. He tosses the blanket onto the other side of the bed, away from Craig. “You _always_ get _super_ moody and unpredictable before your period.”

 **Some facts:**  
**I. Clyde refers to Craig’s migraines as his “period”, because**

**II. they happen (at least) monthly and often occur after what Clyde calls “PMS”, which**

**III. is an acronym for _Pre-Migraine Symptoms._**

**Fun Fact: Clyde insists that "PMS" is a better term than "prodrome".**

**The medical nerds of South Park High School:**  
**I. Kyle**

**II. Kenny, and**

**III. Clyde.**

The reminder of having quit the team makes Craig want to slap himself. What the hell had he been thinking? He _hadn’t_ been thinking, that’s the point. He’d been caught up in the whirlwind that was his unpredictable mood. It’s relieving to know he’d only been so miserable because of this _bullshit_ migraine idiocy.

It’s also relieving to know that Craig isn’t actually that caught-up with Stan. Sure, Stan’s interesting, but he’s not some _catalyst_. Stan only felt like a big deal because he was the last big subject that Craig’s brain had to deal with before going totally berserk.

 

**Fun Fact: Craig calls those situational, temporary obsessions “brain-loops”.**

After a moment, Craig realizes he feels bad. He feels useless. He hates the fact that he can't be independent all the time. God knows he's tried. "I'm sorry," Craig says. It's all he can manage. It's enough. Clyde shakes his head.

"Naw," says Clyde. "I don't mind, dude! This is good practice for me, y'know."

**Fun Fact: Clyde wants to be a nurse.**

“How did you get in, anyway?” Craig asks.

Clyde hops up onto the bed next to Craig. The bouncing irritates Craig, but it isn’t painful, which is a relief. His migraine seems to have subsided completely. The only thing that remains is the sensitivity in his eyes and the lethargy that fogs his thoughts. “Oh, your back door was unlocked,” Clyde finally answers. Craig rolls his eyes.

“You couldn’t be bothered to look for the spare key?”

“I did! I just… y’know, I got bored.” Clyde shrugs. Craig sighs.

**Fun Fact: That’s very _Clyde_.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	33. Act V Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig takes the story with a grain of salt.

“Oh, dude! Did you see what happened at lunch the other day?”

Craig looks up from his book. About ten minutes after they’d initially gotten settled, Craig’s brain had restarted itself properly, and he was able function more-or-less like a normal human. Some things remain: his legs are still weak, and it’s a little hard to attune the fine motor skills in his hands, but his brain doesn’t feel misty or anything anymore. In fact, he would go so far as to say he feels pretty damn good. He’d tried to convince Clyde multiple times that he was fine, but Clyde refused— and still refuses— to listen.

 **Some quick observations:**  
**I. it’s almost two-forty**

**II. Clyde sits, cross-legged, at the foot of his bed, and**

**III. Clyde has been rambling pretty much nonstop.**

**Extra facts:**  
**I. the book Craig reads is the same one from this morning**

**II. it is a book about cars, and**

**III. he stole it from his dad’s shelf almost a year ago**

**Furthermore:**  
**I. it used to belong to his grandfather, who**

**II. really liked cars, and**

**III. his parents like to joke that it “runs in the family”.**

**Fun Fact: Craig’s brain is working very efficiently, and he loves it.**

“Craaaig,” Clyde whines. Craig glances over at having been addressed. “Don’t tell me you’re losing it again, man.”

“What do you mean?” Craig asks. Clyde rolls his eyes.

“I asked you a question!”

Craig contemplates responding with  _no you didn’t,_ but he decides against it. He knows the opposite is true, anyway, and he tries not to make a habit of lying, if he can help it. The words on the page start to melt into one another, and with that, he decides to turn to a different section in the book. “Oh,” he says, thumbing the corner of the thick paper. “What’d you ask?”

“The thing in the cafeteria the other day,” Clyde reiterates, “Did you see it?”

Craig quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”

It’s slightly comical, really, when Clyde gasps all taken-aback. There’s no doubt that he’s excited to be the one imparting this gossip to Craig. “Dude, it was fuckin’ weird,” says Clyde, clapping his hands together. A few seconds later, he rubs his palms, like he’s trying to warm himself. “Stan and them, you remember them, right? Stan and them went all, like… Mean Girls.”

Craig grunts another, “What do you mean?”

“Okay, okay, I don’t really know how to explain it, but—” Clyde cuts himself off, seeming to contemplate this. He shakes his head, his hair fluffing around his head. It looks darker than it really is in the dimness of the room; Clyde had shut the drapes not long ago, after he realized Craig was squinting. Craig hadn’t mentioned it, but he appreciated the gesture. Clyde combs his fingers through his hair as he continues. “Okay, I _totally_ know how to explain it… sort of? Man, I don’t know if I can do it justice, though, it _was_ pretty weird—”

“It involves Stan, of course it’s weird,” Craig says, which makes Clyde laugh. “Get to the point.”

“Alright, alright, so— _basically_ , Cartman stole Kyle’s notebook and got up on the table and started to, like, _read_ from it,” Clyde explains, lifting his eyes to recall the memory. “Which, like, wouldn’t have been weird on its own, y’know? But he prefaced it with some stupid speech like—”

Clyde puffs up his chest and pulls a weird face, proceeding with an impression of Cartman’s introduction.

“ _South Park High School, you gahs I’m seriousleh, listen to this gay diary of the jiw, it’s the shit, you gahs, lets see what Kyal does in his free time._ ”

Craig is admittedly a little amused at the accuracy of Clyde’s impression. He doesn’t know if those are the exact words Eric used— knowing Clyde, likely not— but it’s the intonation that counts. Craig takes the story with a grain of salt. “And then he read from that notebook, or something?” Craig asks. Clyde nods furiously, back to his normal posture and cadence.

“Yeah, bro, it was freakin’ killer,” Clyde says.

 **The updated vocabulary of Clyde Donovan:**  
**I. “mean”**

**II. “YOLO”**

**III. “swag”, and**

**IV. “killer”.**

“I mean, I couldn’t understand what the fuck he was saying, because it _def_ wasn’t in English,” Clyde admits, “But it was funny! And then Stan climbed up onto the table and he and Cartman had a fucking sissy fight, it was _awesome_.”

Craig feels himself inadvertently lean in at the mention of Stan. He’s interested in that. For research purposes. “A sissy fight?”

“Yeah! Stan tried to grab the notebook back from Cartman, but Cartman is… well, y’know, it didn’t work, and Cartman, like— he like—” Clyde clambered up from the bed, stumbling so he could stand. He proceeded to mime the incident, and at the end, shoved the phantom “Stan” to the side. “And _bam_! — Stan hit the ground and, fuck, I felt it.”

“Were you nearby?” Craig asks. Clyde shakes his head.

“Nah, I just— like, the _sound_ of him hitting the floor, y’know? Gave me the heebie-jeebies.” To push his point, Clyde shudders, scrubbing at his arms as if he’s been out in the cold.

Pandora, who had been sitting near the door, reacts immediately. She climbs to her feet and starts quickly over. Oh, shit. Craig should tell him to stop. “Uh, Clyde—”

Too late. She leaps up on her hind legs, her front legs coming up to lean on Clyde’s back, prodding him rather roughly. Thankfully, Clyde is used to impact, so he doesn’t really react strongly— or, more importantly, fall over. “Shit!” Clyde says, laughing through it. “Hey, _beertje_!”

**Fun Fact: Clyde calls Pandora _“beertje”_ — which he told Craig means “Little Bear” in Dutch.**

Clyde lets go of his arms, and Pandora lingers momentarily before dropping back down to the floor. She hovers around his legs, nosing against the sides of his knees. Craig shuts the book. Clyde immediately lowers himself to the floor, crouching in front of her. He pets her head and scratches behind her ears, a wide grin on his face.

“Sorry, girl, I didn’t realize you were in the room…” Clyde pats the top of her head a few times, then looks up at Craig. Clyde says, “I forgot she did that.”

“Yeah,” replies Craig. “I’m trying to train her so she only does that with certain people, but it’s a work in progress.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t see why you’d need to,” Clyde offers. He sits down on the floor, his legs spread out in front of him. Pandora lays herself out beside him, and when he continues to pet her, she rolls onto her back, her tail rhythmically hitting the carpeted floor. Clyde laughs again, rubbing her stomach. “Aw, look, she wants belly rubs!”

After a few minutes of distraction, Clyde returns to the topic at hand.

“I mean, like, I don’t think anyone would… catch on, or whatever, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Clyde says. “I mean, hell— Pandora loves everyone, anyway! Why not let her go for snuggles?”

“Because it isn’t snuggles, Clyde,” Craig answers. “It’s not just something she does for the hell of it, okay? She does it because it’s her job.”

Clyde laughs. “She must really love her job, then!” he says. His face is red from smiling so much, and he’s still giving Pandora all the love and attention he can get away with. Craig doesn’t tell him not to; Pandora deserves it. She _also_ deserves a treat for her good behavior this morning.

“Hey, Clyde, do you wanna give her a treat?” Craig asks. Clyde immediately perks up. He looks a little like a dog, himself.

“Aw, man, can I?” Clyde beams. He scrambles to his feet. “Kitchen?”

“Kitchen,” confirms Craig.

“Oh, _killer_!” Clyde says excitedly. “C’mon, _beertje_! Treats!”

Before exiting, Clyde spins on his heel in the doorway.

“Stay here, Craig!” Clyde instructs. “Doctor’s orders.”

Pandora rolls over and climbs to her feet. She follows Clyde out of the bedroom, though she lingers for a second in the hallway. She gives Craig a look, but Craig isn’t concerned— and neither is Pandora. She trots along behind Clyde in no time. Craig listens to their footsteps fade down the hall, and listens to the thudding of them descending the stairs.

Craig waits. Thirty seconds. One minute. One minute forty-five. Then, he pushes the book onto his comforter and slowly stands up. At first, his legs protest. They don’t want to be supporting his weight, yet, but he doesn’t really care. He knows he’s past the worst of it, and he’s getting restless. He needs to walk around… and he doesn’t want to be left alone in his room. It gets stiff in here. Dark.

Craig uses the wall for support, and takes a second to lean on the door frame. Yeah. He’s fine. He lifts his legs, one at a time, and bends his knees, stretching. His brain feels new, but his body has yet to catch up. It’ll likely be another hour or so before he feels up to walking more than a couple hundred feet. He just needs to push himself that extra bit.

Brave enough to let go of the wall, Craig begins on his way down the hall and towards the steps. His confidence has returned, and he pads down them with ease. Halfway down, though, something happens. He doesn’t know what, honestly— it just happens. He’s pretty sure he loses the energy he’d stored up. He’s kind of winded, and feels like he needs to sit down. Fuck that, though. He’s halfway down the stairs, goddammit, and he’s going to finish going down.

“Craig, _banister_.”

Craig doesn’t know who said that, but he obeys them nonetheless. His hand encircles the banister and he holds on tight, just in time for his body to try toppling forward. He breathes a sigh of relief at the close call. He startles when there’s suddenly someone grabbing his free arm to help support him. He looks up. It’s Tweek. The front door is open, and there are wet, snowy bootprints leading from outside. He must have just gotten here— and Craig must have been so preoccupied within himself that he’d missed it.

Tweek doesn’t look happy. He’s frowning, his brows slightly furrowed. “Are you okay?” he asks, concern lacing his tone. “Do you need your—”

“You’re letting the cold air in,” Craig says, nodding towards the front door. Tweek’s frown deepens.

“Babe—”

“I’m okay, Clyde’s here.”

“Clyde’s here?” Tweek makes a quiet growling noise, obviously frustrated. “Where is he? Has he been helping you? Did you—”

“Can we talk about this later?” Craig asks. He glances over the banister, examining the living room. The couch looks very tempting. He really just wants to sit down. “I’d like to keep going down the stairs.”

Tweek, shocked into a small silence, nods in allowance and supports Craig the rest of the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra update for y'all. happy valentine's day, friends. :)
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	34. Act V Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Craig can do is shrug.

Clyde gets yelled at by Tweek for leaving Craig unsupervised. It’s both amusing and utterly embarrassing. He wants to tell Tweek to leave Clyde alone, but he doesn’t get the chance. Clyde apologizes profusely, but he’s still smiling. His fingers are greasy from the dog treats, and Pandora has settled herself in the corner of the room with one of her chew toys. Craig picks at the fabric of the cushion beneath him.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. has his arms crossed**

**II. is bouncing his foot, and**

**III. is really not happy.**

Tweek says something else. He’s good at composing himself, really; he structures it like a monologue, and it gets Craig feeling all sorts of things. He doesn’t want to feel most of them. A string comes loose from the cushion. He stops picking at it. Clyde has apologized enough to sate Tweek. Tweek drops it.

Clyde tries to segue into the topic of _oh, did you hear what happened the other day at lunch…_ but Tweek brushes him off by saying yes, he _does_ know what happened, and no, he _doesn’t_ want to hear Clyde’s impersonation of Eric Cartman. If Clyde takes offense to that, he doesn’t show it.

Craig looks up when the couch dips under the weight of another person. It’s Tweek. He sits close. Their thighs are almost touching. Craig wants to pull him closer. Simultaneously, Craig wants to push him away. He’s really conflicted, fighting with himself internally to make a decision about what he should do. He settles for not doing anything. Instead, he watches Clyde sit down next to Pandora and start to play with her and the chew toys.

Tweek takes Craig’s hand. Craig looks up at him.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. has hazel eyes**

**II. chapped lips, and**

**III. red cheeks.**

Craig feels something hit him firmly in the chest. It’s an emotion. He hates it and loves it at the same time. He wants to find comfort in Tweek. He wants to curl up with him and protect him and be protected and…

Craig looks at the floor. He knows Tweek frowns. He can feel it in the twitch of Tweek’s fingers against his own.

“Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Tweek asks him. Craig finds the new information interesting. He hadn’t known Tweek had texted him at all. Hell, Craig doesn’t even know…

“I don’t know where my phone is,” Craig says. Tweek makes a noise. He pets the skin of Craig’s knuckles with his thumbs. Craig loves it, but he won’t admit that. Tweek asks more questions.

 **The questions:**  
**I. “Did you look for it?”**

**II. “Where did you last leave it?”**

**III. “Did you have an episode?”**

**IV. “Butters told me you quit softball, is that true?”**

Craig opens his mouth to answer the last one, but Clyde beats him to the punch.

“Oh, yeah!” interjects Clyde, mid-squeeze of the toy in his hand. It makes a slow _squeeeee_ noise. Pandora nips for it, and Clyde gives it to her. “He totally tried to, Tweek, he was all— _tell Coach I quit_ , and I was like, the fuck? But I knew not to listen to him— don’t worry, I know how his PMS gets.”

Tweek looks at Craig with an expression of concern. All Craig can do is shrug. Clyde had already let him know how it went down with coach last night, and he’s glad it went the way it did—

 **The conversation between Coach and Clyde (as recited by Donovan):**  
**Coach: Where’s Craig?**

**Clyde: He went home, he’s got hardcore PMS.**

**Coach: PMS?**

**Clyde: Yeah, it’s a whole thing. I’m not telling, though, so you’re SOL, dude. Bro-code privacy. Yeah, I like to keep things confidential.**

**And then Clyde kissed Bebe and everyone clapped.**

—minus the embellishments, of course. Clyde might like to stylize the retelling of his stories, but he always gets the main point across. In this case, the main point is: _I got your back, you’re still on the team._

There’s a second of silence, where everyone stays to themselves and their own minds. Clyde quietly coos to Pandora in the corner. Tweek bites his lip. Craig tries to ignore the urge to hug Tweek. And kiss him. But mostly hug him.

Tweek looks at Craig, after that silence. His eyes are soft like water. Craig’s chest squeezes, almost painfully. He looks at Tweek, trying to relay information to him through his eyes. He doesn’t know how to do it accurately, and he’s afraid the point won’t get across. He’s afraid Tweek won’t pick up on it. Those fears, however, are unfounded. Tweek gets it. Tweek always gets it.

Tweek lets go of Craig’s hand and stands from the couch.

“Okay, Clyde, I’ve got it from here, you can go now,” Tweek tells him. He stands near the coffee table, watching as Clyde tries to retrieve a rope toy from Pandora in a playful tug-of-war.

“What?” Clyde asks.

“You can go, man,” Tweek repeats. He’s being polite in his dismissal, but he’s also firm. Clyde drops the rope and climbs to his feet. A grin starts to spread on his face. Clyde glances at Craig, then at Tweek, then back at Craig, then back at—

“ _Oh_ ,” he says. That grin gains a different look. “ _Ohhh_ , _I_ get it, you guys want… _alone time_.” And Clyde actually uses air-quotes for the term “alone time”. Tweek rolls his eyes. Craig just stares. Clyde backs up towards the door, hands up in the air. “Alright, alright, I get it, I’ll go… I respect a good bang.”

“The hell, man, we are _not_ going to bang,” Tweek says. Clyde snickers. The door closes loudly behind him as he leaves. Pandora barks at the noise, then goes back to her toys.

Tweek’s shoulders are tense, and his hands are on his hips. He appears a little flustered, and Craig understands why. Clyde can be a bit of a handful, sometimes. Tweek turns around, then, muttering “Jesus,” under his breath as he returns to his spot on the couch.

The squeezing returns in Craig’s chest. It feels mostly pleasant, now that they’re alone. He doesn’t feel as on-edge about keeping up his tough-guy facade. Well, it isn’t a facade. Is it? He can’t tell anymore if that’s him or not. Of course it is. He’s being ridiculous. Every part of him is him, whether it’s him acting or not. It’s still _him_. He’s still the same.

He wonders if Stan is okay.

Craig pushes Stan out of his thoughts and scoots close to Tweek.

Craig ducks his head into Tweek’s shoulder and tugs him close. Tweek returns the hug, tight in his gesture and calm in his motions. They sit there like that, not moving, for a long time. They eventually curl up more fully on the couch. Tweek has his arms wrapped around Craig’s neck, and Craig holds his waist. His face is buried in Tweek’s shoulder, still, and he smells like polyester and apples and familiarity and _Tweek_.

Craig doesn’t cry. He _could_ cry, but he doesn’t. That would be dumb.

“I was really worried,” Tweek whispers against his ear. Tweek leans away from Craig, just enough to look at his face. Craig leans back to let him. Tweek brushes some hair out of Craig’s face. Craig ignores the instinct to shy away.

“Why?” Craig asks. Tweek starts to chew at his lips again.

“I don’t know, man,” Tweek replies. “I just— you weren’t at French today, y’know? And then— you weren’t in theater, and I texted you, and I got scared that you had an episode or a seizure or a stroke or, oh, _Jesus_ —”

“Breathe, babe.”

Tweek draws in a breath. Then, he continues. “I was scared you were alone, and in pain,” he says. He presses their foreheads together. He’s not looking at Craig’s eyes. Tweek is looking down. Craig doesn’t know where he’s looking, he’s just looking down. But then he’s not looking down, anymore, and he’s looking into Craig’s eyes. Tweek bites the inside of his cheek. Craig can see the way his mouth twists as he chews the skin. Quietly, Tweek whispers, “I love you so much.”

Craig opens his mouth to respond. The words catch in his throat. He feels awkward saying it. He’s not used to it. His parents never say it, his sister never says it, his grandparents certainly never say it. Those words are foreign in his mouth, like they don’t belong there. Naturally, his brain tries to avoid the discomfort that comes along with saying it.

Saying I love you.

But he knows it’s true.

Craig loves him. Craig loves him a lot.

“I love you, too,” Craig whispers, no longer looking into Tweek’s eyes. He can’t maintain eye contact and say it at the same time. He can’t. It’ll choke him. It’s too much.

Tweek gets it, though.

Tweek always gets it.

Tweek tells Craig that he’s wonderful. Craig’s heart swells in his chest. Craig wants to say more, but he can’t. His vocal chords are paralyzed.

**Fun Fact: Tweek does that to him. Tweek really makes him stupid.**

_You take my voice away. I love it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	35. Act V Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig can’t articulate it.

Tweek doesn’t stay long. He can’t, really; he had promised his parents he would work the evening shift at the coffee shop. As he’s gotten older and busier with theater, his parents have let up more and more. Craig is thankful for that. Now Tweek’s working hours fit more acutely with the schedule that’s comfy for him. It works, and it works well.

As soon as Tricia came home, Tweek kissed Craig goodbye and left homeward. Craig dumbly offered to drive him home, to which Tweek assured him he most definitely would not do that. He had a point. He shouldn’t operate heavy machinery after being out of commission for the entire day. He always struggles with brain glitches for a while after migraines. Always. He hates to admit it, so he pretends it doesn’t happen, but it does.

Tricia bothers him about his homework. Craig flips her off. Pandora chews on her toys. It’s normal. Overwhelmingly, it is average. Bland. Boring. Uneventful.

**Fun Fact: That’s just the way he likes it.**

Craig reclines on the couch for a while. He dozes on and off for a minute or two. He thinks about the way things are, and he thinks about how that reflects in the universe. He ponders the butterfly effect, but quickly becomes disinterested in such a concept. Tricia kicks him off the couch, eventually, which he’s okay with. He stands. Tricia turns on the television. He can hear the background noise of whatever show she’s watching. Bothered by the static, he brings Pandora into the deepest corner of the kitchen. He sits with her, and pets her, and allows himself to fall into the thoughts he’d looped through previously.

It’s maybe ten minutes before four when Craig realizes something.

He stops petting Pandora. She doesn’t mind the lack of attention. She goes back to the chew toy that she’d brought with her, pawing and gnawing at it between her teeth. His brain is buzzing with the after-effects of socializing, leaving him feeling a little odd. He doesn’t have a word to fit into it. Maybe he feels lonely. He doesn’t know. He checks in with himself, and after some pondering, he decides the realization is true.

 **The realization:**  
**I. Craig is sad, and**

**II. he doesn’t know why.**

Craig decides it’s kind of stupid. He has no reason to feel sad. Why does he feel sad? It’s not even a very distinct sadness. Really, it’s quite minimal. The only reason it’s noteworthy is because of that minimalism. He feels pinned. He feels trapped. He feels normal, though, too, which throws him for a loop. He thinks.

 **Craig:**  
**I. wonders if he’s always felt kind of sad**

**II. wonders if the therapist was right, and**

**III. wonders if his parents were onto something.**

Craig can’t articulate it. Primarily, though, he doesn’t want to. Feelings don’t really coincide with words to him. They just _are_. And since they are _just_ _are_ , he finds himself tense and pent-up with the emotion he can’t get out. He’s never had a breakdown because of it, or anything, though.

**Fun Fact: That’s a lie.**

Pandora lays her head in Craig’s lap. He’s not expecting it. He kind of doesn’t want to be touched right now. She looks up at him with eyes that look sad. He wonders if he’s rubbing off on her. He wonders if he looks sad. He wonders if, maybe, he doesn’t deserve a dog. Craig decides to stop thinking before he makes the sadness worse.

 **Craig:**  
**I. lifts his hand**

**II. scratches Pandora behind the ears, and**

**III. strokes gently down her back.**

Pandora is back to wagging her tail. She’s calm. She’s still. She looks sleepy.

Craig is sleepy, too. He contemplates standing up. He contemplates going upstairs. He contemplates going to bed. His legs still feel a little shaky, even though he’s sitting down. He’s weak. He hasn’t eaten anything, yet. He should do that. He doesn’t want to, but he should. Food doesn’t sound pleasant, but it’s necessary. Fuel. Calories to make sure he can think properly. Calories to give him energy to feel normal.

 **Maybe he:  
** **I. isn’t sad, and**

**II. is just hungry.**

Before Craig can contemplate it further, the doorbell rings. It’s loud. Craig isn’t expecting it. Pandora isn’t, either. Naturally, Pandora gets excited. She scrabbles to her feet. Craig tells her to sit. She doesn’t listen. She’s going to pounce on whoever is at the door as soon as they walk in, if he doesn’t do something.

“Soothe,” he says. Pandora snaps to attention and comes back over. She lays herself over his thighs to implement DPT, just as she’s been trained. He doesn’t need it. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than getting the person at the door freaked out from Pandora’s excitement.

He can vaguely hear mumbling, though he can’t pinpoint tones or familiar voices— until Tricia calls out, “Craig! Some douchebag with a stupid coat is trying to break in!”

More mumbling. Craig replies, “How stupid are we talking?” He can’t handle the contact anymore. Craig gently tells Pandora _off_ , which she obeys. She squirms off of his lap and stands, waiting for instruction. Relieved, Craig stands, and starts toward the exit of the kitchen. “Like, Boy George, or Vanilla Ice stupid?”

Tricia answers, “Worse!”

What? Okay, fine. They’re playing this game. Pandora starts following him. He turns, mouths _stay_ , and then answers Tricia with, “Richard Simmons?”

“No,” Tricia says. “More like Mark Zuckerberg on an off day.”

“Yeah, that sounds bad,” he responds, but he doesn’t really know what the fuck that’s supposed to look like. He goes back to walking out of the kitchen. He finally exits with little issue. He stops when he’s a few feet away from the door. He can see the visitor, now, standing in asthma-induced heavy-breathing in the doorway. It’s Stan. What the fuck? What is Stan doing here? Craig is thrown for a loop, and Craig has to do his best not to do or say something stupid. Instead, all Craig says is, “Tricia, I have the same jacket.”

 **Tricia:**  
**I. turns around**

**II. starts up the steps, and**

**III. says, “Have fun, brother dearest!”**

Craig gives her the finger.

Stan draws in a breath that’s painful to listen to. It’s closer to a gasp than an inhale. Craig can hear it loud and clear. “Sisters,” Stan wheezes, “Am I right?”

 **Stan:**  
**I. definitely walked here**

**II. has no reason to be here, and**

**III. shouldn’t still be outside**

**(IV. Craig needs to get him in, and get him warm— and get him water.)**

“At least I don’t get beat up by mine,” Craig says.

**Fun Fact: Saying that was a mistake.**

Stan doubles over and starts to cough. He sounds like he’s on death’s doorstep, and his skin is flushed red with cold. It’s horrible to listen to Stan struggle to breathe. Horrible. It reminds him of Tweek on a bad day.

Stan asks if he can sit down. Without hesitation, Craig allows him inside.

 

**END ACT FIVE  
"Comets"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	36. Intermission V

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A PERFECTLY CONTROLLING MOUNTAIN — DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy breathes in clean air. It inflates his lungs and cradles his airways, helping him feel completely, totally, and one hundred percent in control. He wonders if there is such a thing as pollution, and eventually decides such a thing wouldn’t matter, anyway. When there is so much clean around him on this mountain, when there is so much pure oxygen, thoughts that suggest such a thing are ridiculous. Self-absorbed though it may be, it’s something that holds him together, and with that, he finds everything complete, total, and fine.

Tweek breaks out of his mountain, and snaps back into the real world. He fills a young woman’s cappuccino and rings her up at the register. He smiles and tells her to _have a nice day_. She smiles back, thanks him, and wanders off to sit with a small group of friends. The stench of coffee is strong and palpable, disorienting him and making him crave it to a fault. His stomach flips, and he wonders if coffee would help him feel more at ease. It almost always used to. Always. Maybe if he just…

**EXT. A QUICKLY ESCAPING MOUNTAIN — DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy is trying to escape. He scrambles through the bushes, the brambles of the leaves, and the vines that comb down from a tree he remembers being there at one point. When he looks back for it, however, it has disappeared. He wonders if there was ever really a tree. He feels like something is chasing him, though, and as his breath escapes him so horribly, he finds he doesn’t care. His aching, stiff feet force him over the surface of the mountain until he finds himself, face-to-face, with the cliff.

Tweek blinks away the mountain. An old man comes in with quite a dapper hat. It tilts on his head, and he grabs the rim and nods at Tweek when he pays for his order of black coffee. His eyes had been a dark brown, Tweek comes to realize. A hollow color that reminds him greatly of—

~~**EXT. A DESPERATELY DESPERATELY DESPERATELY** ~~

**EXT. A TRULY DESPERATE MOUNTAIN — DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy is trying to hold himself together. With the loss of the willow and the temptation of the cliff, he plucks grass from the sod and avoids the clovers like the plague. They disrupt him and inexorably decide when he will feel normal again. He wonders, if maybe, he can pick his way back to normalcy. If he ignores it long enough, if he ignores the lack of the tree and the scratch of the clovers, everything will turn out the way it is ultimately supposed to. He likes that thought. In fact, he likes it a lot. His fingertips are stained with grass, juiced and green and sticky. He tears them to strips with his nails. He scoops up the remnants, brings them to the cliff, and watches them fall down into the ocean.

Tweek forces away the mountain. He finds himself in the middle of making a cup of coffee. Confused, he glances toward the counter. No one is there. No one is waiting for coffee. In his panic, he’d grabbed a cup and done the thing that used to calm him most— made himself a warm drink. And— fuck, that’s all it’d be, right? Just a warm drink? Just a warm drink, assuredly, that’s all it’d be. Just a warm drink. One sip couldn’t hurt. One sip never hurt him, right? Just one sip. One little, teeny, tiny sip, it’s—

No.

Nope.

Tweek sets the steaming cup onto the counter. He can’t drink the product. He cannot, will not, should not, absolutely positively _refuses_ to drink _anything_ other than water. Telling himself that doesn’t make the shaking go away. It doesn’t make the fidgeting subside. It doesn’t make him want it any less. All it does it affirm the fact that he won’t drink it. It is painful. It hurts to be around the very thing he’s vowed never to touch again.

He made a promise to Craig. He made a very distinct, very rational, very logical promise. Tweek wholeheartedly, completely, totally, absolutely intends to keep that promise.

Tweek dumps the coffee out in the sink and goes back to work.

  
**BEGIN ACT SIX**  
**“The Professionals”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	37. Case Study #6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Stan Marsh

**CASE STUDY #6:**  
**STANLEY “STAN” MARSH**

_Some very important facts about: Stan Marsh_

_Stan Marsh has natural black hair, blue eyes, and always looks a little sleep-deprived. Stan Marsh is notorious for being the school’s “celebrity”. People joke about how he’s gone down the rabbit hole of fame, and subsequently lost everything. Stan Marsh doesn’t notice. Stan Marsh is a bit of an egoist, but he is depressed. Stan Marsh is contradictory like that._

Craig’s bedroom has darkened since he was last in here a little over an hour ago (1 hour 23 minutes). The curtains are drawn. The lights are off. It’s clean, mostly. The book is still on his bed. It’s buried under the blankets.

Marsh asks, “Hey, Craig, what’s that?”

Craig replies, “What’s what?”

Marsh points. Craig looks over. The poster.

Craig says, “Oh, that’s Abell two-seven-four-four. That’s Pandora’s Cluster.”

Marsh hums. Marsh looks at Pandora, who stays close to Craig. Marsh asks, “That’s the thing you named your dog after?”

Does he always ask so many questions? Craig says, “Yeah.”

Marsh asks, “What’s up with you and space, anyway?”

Craig shrugs. He says, “I guess you could say it’s a special interest.”

Craig sits down on the floor at the foot of his bed. His legs are straight in front of him. Pandora hovers. She must be anxious. Craig pets down Pandora’s back. He looks at Marsh.

Craig asks, “Well?”

Marsh replies, “Well what?”

Craig answers, “Go get your shit,”

Marsh says, “I thought you were getting it.”

Craig says, “You came unannounced, so you can get it yourself.”

Marsh scratches the back of his neck. He looks around the room. He looks afraid. Marsh mutters, “Um, where is it?”

Craig sniffs and rubs his nose. He no longer has a cold. Marsh’s punch still affects him, though. Or maybe it’s psychosomatic. Pandora licks Craig’s face. He gently pushes her off. Craig says, “In my closet, on the shelf at the top.”

Marsh is slow as he obeys. He looks like he could curl into a ball at any moment. His hair is a mess. His sweater is losing strings at the hems. Marsh looks kind of homeless. Craig wonders just how true that is.

_Side Note: Stan Marsh hasn’t looked happy in years._

Marsh has to stretch to reach the bag. He manages successfully. He looks around the room again. He still looks afraid. Craig muses that Marsh doesn’t belong here. He shouldn’t be buying drugs. He’s not prepared. Marsh was never prepared, was he? He gives off that air.

Marsh puts the bag on the desk. It thumps. Pandora gets excited at the noise.

Craig uses the 'soothe' command. She perks up, but doesn’t get it. He repeats it, this time patting his thigh more obviously. Pandora realizes what Craig wants. She crawls over his lap. She implements DPT. Craig is afraid it might overwhelm him. It doesn’t. Relieved, Craig scratches Pandora behind the ears. Craig whispers, “Good girl.”

Marsh has found the BS. Craig knows, because Marsh asks, “What page?”

Craig replies, “Sixty-nine.”

Marsh asks, “Seriously?”

Craig returns, “What? It’s the page I left off on.”

Marsh doesn’t reply to that. Marsh opens the book. His expression changes. He appears pale. He swallows thickly. The bag crinkles when he picks it out of the book. Marsh, still looking off, puts it into his pocket.

Marsh pulls out the money.

Marsh asks, “A hundred, right?”

Craig realizes something.

Craig doesn’t want to sell to Marsh.

_Relationship: We used to hate each other, but that was a long time ago._

Craig feels ill. He’s thankful for Pandora. He pets her some more. He doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head.

Marsh huffs, “No? What do you mean? How much is it?”

Craig admits, “It’s not worth more than thirty.”

Marsh snaps, “What?”

Another admission. Craig replies, “Yeah, I lied.”

Craig doesn’t like lying.

Marsh hisses, “Why?”

Craig doesn’t like his tone. More admissions. Craig says, “I wanted to see how far you’d go. I didn’t think you’d go for it, but you went farther than I thought, so… congratulations, I guess. You earned it.”

Marsh is silent. Craig looks up.

Craig asks, “What? Are you upset or something? Look, it says more about you than it does about me. If you’re mad, go pout somewhere else. Leave the thirty bucks on my desk and go.”

Marsh huffs again. Marsh combs his fingers through his hair. Marsh drops thirty bucks on the desk. Marsh asks, “Do you have any wine?”

Craig is silent. A pause. Craig asks, “Excuse me?”

Marsh repeats, “Wine— or any alcohol, honestly. Do you have any, and if you do, can I buy it with the extra?”

Marsh waves two fifties in the air. Craig feels himself getting irritated. The nerve of Stan Marsh. The fuck is wrong with him? Craig growls, “You didn’t say anything about mixing LSD with alcohol, you fucking moron.”

Marsh’s eyes widen.

Craig is still mad. He asks, “What did I say about research?”

Marsh admits he didn’t do the research. Marsh says, “But the alcohol isn’t for me, it’s for my — y’know, the person I got the money from. They wanted me to get them something with what I had left, and… they wanted wine.”

Craig feels something. Craig asks, “You made a deal with someone else so you could get the money for the LSD?”

Marsh is silent. Craig’s irritation becomes anger. Marsh does that speechless thing of his. Craig is getting riled up. He ducks down to focus on the action of petting Pandora.

A few minutes pass. Craig has calmed. He looks up. He says, “C’mere, Marsh. Lets talk.”

_Footnote: Stan Marsh is an alcoholic._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	38. Act VI Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He ignores it.

Against his better judgment, Craig offers to drive Stan home. He knows he doesn’t have to, and Stan tells him as much, but he’s not too keen on the idea of the guy walking home in this weather. The cold is cutting even to Craig, and he rather favors low temperatures. Of course, Stan tries to dissuade him.

**Stan says:**  
**I. “I’m really okay,”**

**II. “You don’t have to do that,”**

**III. “I have my inhaler, I’ll be fine,” and**

**IV. “No, seriously, I don’t want to be a burden.”**

He says other things, too, but they don’t count. Craig stops listening to Stan after a while. He simply grabs the keys out of his bag and walks downstairs. Stan follows, obviously; he trails close by like a lost puppy, eyes wide like he expects to be kicked out at any minute. Craig wouldn’t do that, though. He doesn’t want to be under scope by the cops if Stan keels over dead mid-walk… not to mention the LSD in his pocket. If they search him, he’ll be totally screwed. It’s just overall safer— for Stan _and_ Craig’s business— if Craig gives him a ride home.

Craig doesn’t bother with a jacket. It’s probably a bad idea, but his sweater is enough for him. If nothing else, it’ll help keep him alert. He _technically_ shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery (thanks, Rizatriptan), but Craig is confident in his ability to drive at this point.

Stan lags behind at the sight of the car, even after Craig unlocks the doors. Craig opens the driver’s side door, but doesn’t get in. He taps his fingers on the top of the car. Stan still hasn’t moved away from the house’s entrance.

“I’m not going to take you into the fields and murder you,” Craig says. Stan makes a face.

“What?” he asks.

“You look nervous,” Craig answers. “So I’m reassuring you that you won’t die.”

Stan rolls his eyes. He thanks Craig, but he still doesn’t look convinced about the safety of the car. He finally climbs into the passenger’s seat, though. Progress. Craig slips in, closes the door, and buckles himself in. The car hums to life once he twists the key in the ignition. It’s a rough ride, this car. The catalytic converter needs to be replaced.

Speaking of things that need to be replaced, there’s something going on with the back left tire. It loses air like nobody’s business. Craig hasn’t run into any major problems with the tire so far. It’s just annoying to keep filling it. The car beeps a wimpy “Low Tire Pressure” warning. He hits the reset. He can’t afford to fix the stupid tire, yet. He wishes he could, but he can’t. He needs money. He wishes he took Stan’s previously-agreed-to $100, but Craig would feel guilty for the rest of his life. It’s a temporary thing. He’ll get the money. He’ll help his parents.

**Fun Fact: It’s his responsibility, and Craig doesn’t mind that.**

**Fun Fact: He wishes he could help more.**

**Fun Fact: He wishes he had a legal job.**

“Are you going to drive, or what?” Stan asks.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” Craig replies. He shifts gears to reverse, backing out of the driveway. He catches sight of Stan. Stan still looks on-edge, hugging himself in a way that doesn’t look intentional. Stan catches himself on it, though, and adjusts. He crosses his arms over his chest. He’s trying to look confident, but he’s not being very successful. Craig is reminded of something. He ignores it.

There’s a song on the radio. It’s barely audible over the crackling of the tires on the snow-covered road. He doesn’t have to look at the radio to know it’s “Hey Jude” by The Beatles. He is a little surprised at the fact that the radio is playing The Beatles, but he doesn’t put much thought into it. It’s not important— not to him, at least.

**Stan:**  
**I. shifts in the seat**

**II. wipes at his mouth, and**

**III. bounces his foot.**

“Can I change it?” Stan asks. Craig gives him a sideways look. “The station, I mean, can I change it?”

Craig gives him permission to change it. Stan leaps on the opportunity, jabbing his finger into the _next_ button. An eighties rock song comes on, instead. Craig likes eighties rock, but he hasn’t heard this one before. It sounds like Def Leppard, though. “Do you have something against The Beatles?” Craig asks. Stan doesn’t say anything to that. Craig doesn’t force him to.

**Fun Fact: The Beatles make Stan squeamish.**

A car passes them going the opposite way. Craig keeps driving. He stops at a stop sign, and takes the moment to glance at Stan. He looks much more relaxed, though arguably this song isn’t very relaxing. It’s pretty good, though. Craig makes a note to try and find it again on his own, later.

“You can drop me off here,” Stan says.

“At least let me get you to the halfway mark,” Craig replies. He starts to drive again so Stan won’t try to leap out. Stan glares at him.

“Fuck, man, why do you _care_ so much?” Stan snaps. Well, now Craig’s _definitely_ not letting him walk home.

“I don’t,” Craig says. Stan’s glare never leaves, but Craig doesn’t care. He’s more concerned with Stan’s life than whether Stan likes him or not. It’s getting dark, and the sun is pretty much completely invisible, at this point. The moon isn’t as bright as it was the other day. It’s quaint. It’s soft. Little glows, street lamps, headlights. Another stop sign.

Stan has relaxed significantly. Craig doesn’t know if he’s willing to talk, but he looks a little more approachable. He mostly just looks…

Craig hates to say it, but it’s true: Stan looks depressed. He looks like he could cry at any minute. He looks lonely.

Craig’s never been depressed, and he’s never been particularly tearful, but he knows loneliness like the back of his hand. It’s part of him, really. Alienation in a crowd. Stan understands that feeling, right? Stan seems to, maybe, be able to _get_ Craig. Maybe in a way even Tweek can’t. Maybe…

“Do you ever feel different?” Craig asks. He feels stupid saying it. Stan looks at him, but his expression doesn’t read in a condescending way. Not that Craig can tell, at least. Craig doesn’t spend very long looking at Stan. At the silence, he elaborates. “Do you ever feel like the entire world’s population is in on this secret, and you’re not?”

It’s quiet. Momentarily, Craig is afraid. He fears that Stan won’t say anything. He’s afraid he made a fool of himself. He tries not to think about it that way, but he can’t really help it. He wonders if Stan isn’t trustworthy.

Craig feels a little bare.

Finally, Stan answers, “No.”

It’s stupid, but Craig feels a little hurt.

“Do you?” Stan asks. He has a tone in his voice, like he’s genuinely interested, or maybe he’s just confused. Craig doesn’t linger on it. A squirrel darts across the road a hundred feet in front of the car. Craig keeps driving. It’s gone as soon as it came. Craig wants to say no, to fit in. A different part of him wants to be really honest. He dismisses the honesty in favor of his pride.

“No,” Craig says. “That’d be stupid.”

It doesn’t take long to get Stan home. Craig doesn’t pull into the driveway; Mr. Marsh’s car is in the way. He pulls up to the yard and lets Stan out there. The car idles roughly, growling in protest of the cold.

Stan unbuckles himself, shoving his hands into his pockets to make sure he has everything. Confident, he says, “Thanks for the ride.”

Craig nods. “See? You didn’t die.”

“I know,” Stan replies. He opens the car door. As he climbs out, he says something else. Craig doesn’t like what he hears.

**The words of Stan Marsh:**  
**I. to be revisited.**

Craig unbuckles the seat-belt quickly, ignoring the fact that it smacks against his shoulder. He opens the car door and peeks his head out. “Stan, wait!” he says, but he’s too late. Stan has already disappeared inside. Craig’s brain feels like it’s working too fast. He wonders if he should go pull him out. He wonders if he should tell someone what Stan said. But was it really such a mystery? Is it really such a revelation?

Craig doesn’t do anything. It’s shamefully easier to talk himself into the fact that Stan will be fine, and maybe he just misheard Stan. Maybe he just misheard him.

Craig pulls out his phone. He taps Stan’s contact. He sends a text.

IdIoT  
  
**Today** 18:04  
hey. its me. i am not saying my name bc u no who I am and I am not incriminating myself like that just in case u gave me a wrong number, dumb butt  
  


Craig climbs back into the car and drives home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	39. Act VI Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something holds up groups near the front.

**Some Facts:**  
**I. it's Monday**

**II. the weekend was uneventful, and**

**III. Craig's not a fan of field trips.**

The bus is really quite cold. He supposes that comes with the territory, considering it’s the middle of January and he’s not wearing a very warm jacket. The length of time he’s been on the bus probably contributes to his distinct chill, too. Admittedly, Craig had forgotten about the field trip today. He barely remembers getting the permission slip signed, and he definitely doesn’t know how he found the willingness to cough up six bucks for a ticket to this stupid play. For a class he doesn’t even want to be taking, six dollars is about twelve dollars too many.

Whatever, though. He’s mostly just glad they’re not going all the way to Denver for a theater field trip. Admittedly, he half expected something like that. He brings up that tidbit with Tweek. Tweek gives him a look like he’s crazy and says he’s thinking of the wrong trip, insinuating the fact that there is, indeed, a Denver trip. Rumor has it there’s also a Fairplay trip, but he doesn’t give nearly enough of a damn to find information on that one.

There’s a smell on the bus, like that of new plastic and bad seat-patch jobs. In front of him, a completely see-through circle of glue covers a large hole in the bus seat. Tweek holds his hand, but it’s not really something they notice anymore. Between the social expectations and the personal liberties, it’s just become a habit. Craig’s forehead, resting on the window, is cold from the condensation of the frost. He watches the outdoor environment pass by silently.

He’s been counting the speed. There is a wheel of numbers in his head, and he adjusts it up or down according to the acceleration of the bus. They enter a small city. It’s closer to a small town than a city, but it’s a city nonetheless. A theater crops up in front of the bus, next to a boutique of some kind. There’s a coffee shop nearby, and even through the closed window, Craig can smell the roughness of a dark roast. He squeezes Tweek’s hand, who squeezes back; Tweek isn’t paying attention. He’s discussing something with Butters, who sits across the aisle. Tricia has found a seat of her own near the back with some other freshman girl. That freshman girl is one that Craig has never seen before. He doesn’t care, though.

Wheels run over a bump in the road. Some of the kids yelp about how _unexpected that was_. He feels Tweek flinch at the suddenness. The bus chatter dies to a murmur as the bus stops at a corner, squealing to its halt. Although unpleasant, the noise doesn’t grate on Craig’s ears as much as he assumed it might.

**Fun Fact: Craig has been dreading the scream of the brakes since their departure.**

People stand up, and Craig follows Tweek’s lead off of the bus. Butters is back to chattering, saying something about how _this_ isn’t the right theater. “But the bus can’t bring us over the other way,” Butters says, almost slipping on the way down the bus steps. He shouts a quick ‘thank you!’ to the bus driver. Tweek and Craig follow in his footsteps, though don’t put as much energy into their own thanks. Butters stomps in the slush as they start down the sidewalk, in the midst of the horde of the theater class. Annoying freshmen swarm them. Butters adds, “So, we gotta walk down a block to find the theater! How exciting is that? And then we get to go wherever we want for food, since we got thirty minutes…”

Craig stops listening. He observes the other pedestrians, who give passing glances to the class of teenagers that make their way down the sidewalk. A light snow falls. It’s cold. It’d be pleasant, if Craig didn’t know he’d have to sit through an hour-long production of some play or whatever. At least he gets to skip his first two classes. His third hour class is his favorite, the aerospace engineering one. They’re working on the logistics. It’s fun. He hopes they’ll get back to school before third hour so he can attend.

The theater is across the street in a rather old-looking alley area. It’s wide open and kind of like something he'd expect to see in New York or some place in Britain. The street becomes cobble, rather than tar. Buildings line it in a similar fashion. He sees a bare tree covered in Christmas lights, though Christmas was a month ago. Craig finds himself remembering _Home Alone_.

Something holds up groups near the front. He doesn’t pay it much mind, until he comes up to the same snag in the road. A man, dressed in winter gear and peppered in a thin dusting of snow, has been talking to the students as they turn onto the sidewalk leading to the theater.

“Seventy-six cents?” he’s asking. “Seventy-six cents? Please, I just need seventy-six cents…”

Immediately, Craig is brought back to the homeless situation from when he was young. Undoubtedly, Tweek is, too. It hurts to pass the man by, but he has no choice. He has no money to spare, and even if he did, he doesn’t know if he would give it to him. He’d be scolded by his mother every time he tried to give money to the homeless. _Don’t give them anything, Craig. They’ll just want more._

Tweek stops walking. Craig does, too. He opens his mouth to ask what’s going on, but he catches sight of the issue quickly. The man, possibly homeless or just a beggar, or maybe truly in need of just seventy-six cents, has approached Butters. And Butters has this look in his eye, like he’s about to crack under the pressure. Hell, he doesn’t even seem to notice the pressure. That kid is too generous for his own damned good.

Butters smiles, starting to dig into his coat pocket for whatever money he’d brought with him for the trip. He’s speaking, but Craig can’t hear him. Tweek lets go of Craig and advances quickly to aid Butters in saying no to the poor man. Craig follows, though he knows he doesn’t have to. In fact, he probably shouldn’t. Tweek puts a hand on Butters’ shoulder.

“C’mon, man,” Tweek says. He tries to tug Butters along, but Butters resists, his brows furrowed.

“What? Aw, gee, don’t worry ‘bout me, I’m just giving this nice man some money for the bus…”

“Don’t give him anything, Butters,” Tweek warns quietly. “You don’t know what he’ll use the money for.”

Butters’ brow twitches down further. “He’s using it _for the bus_ ,” he says.

All the while, the man stands there, watching and probably waiting for money. Craig tries to read him, but can’t. He doesn’t know if this man genuinely needs the money or not. Craig doesn’t know if he cares if he needs it. He’s overwhelmed with the urge to give him money just in case. He doesn’t have money. He’s conflicted with supporting his boyfriend and his own feelings. Tweek says something more, but Craig doesn’t catch it.

“Tweek, _stop_ ,” Butters hisses. He grabs a dollar out of his pocket, hands it to the man, and smiles brightly. “Have a nice day, mister.”

The man walks away. Tweek is agitated, his jaw tense and brows furrowed much like Butters’. “Jesus, man— you gave him a dollar? You know that’s just encouraging this shit, right?”

In a split second, Butters’ attitude cracks. His entire expression changes. “Wow, _really_?” Butters snaps, voice dark. “You don’t know how that man’s day went, you don’t know if he needs it! I have the money to spare. That was _my_ choice, not _yours_ , got it, buddy?”

Tweek looks ready to argue, but Butters doesn’t let him. Butters shoves past Tweek in a fit of irritation. He passes Craig, and under his breath, mutters something about _needing a fucking cigarette._

“Fucking asshole,” Tweek mutters, coming up next to Craig. He gestures towards where Butters disappeared off to. “The fuck’s his issue?”

Craig can’t help it. He speaks up with his own opinion. “I mean, he has a point,” he says. “We don’t know if that guy was even a fake, or trying to get drugs, or whatever… he might’ve really needed it.”

Tweek scoffs, offended. “Of course _you_ say that,” he returns snappishly. Craig is taken aback. He opens his mouth to ask him _what the fuck_ that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t get the chance. Tweek storms off, leaving Craig confused and a little hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	40. Act VI Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s stupid, but he’s mad.

Predictably, the play is boring. Craig spends most of it observing the structure of the small theater. Down in a basement of some sort, the ceiling rises high and the stage comes out into the audience. From the class itself, Craig is almost certain that he knows the term for such a stage: a thrust stage. Or something. Not that he’s actually paying attention in this class, or anything. He’s only listening just enough to pass, so he can go back to his regularly-scheduled school-plan in peace.

It takes forever, and when it’s finished, he has to blink away a tired daze. That wasn’t enthralling at all. He’d almost managed to fall asleep. The only things keeping him awake are exhaustible, and numerated.

 **Craig is awake because:**  
**I. of his thoughts**

**II. of his feelings, and**

**III. of his routines.**

The seat beneath him is uncomfortable. He shifts in it while the actors come along the stage and bow. He has a feeling it’d have more impact if he actually payed attention. As it is, though, it just looks a little simplistic. He decides he’s fine with it, however. He squints when the lights overhead come on. The audience begins to mumble in chatter, until that mumble becomes a regularly-volumed conversational hum. Craig stands when the rest of the class begins to do so. They walk out of the theater and into the main lobby, where Mr. Douchebag gives instructions on what’s going to happen next. They’ll be walking across the plaza to a mall, where there is a food court at the second floor, and that’s where they’ll have the option of grabbing something to eat before the bus comes back to pick them up. It’s too early for lunch, and they’ll still make it back for regularly-scheduled school food, but these are teenagers. Food usually isn’t an issue with teenagers.

Craig’s stomach hurts. He knows that’s because he didn’t eat much last night or at all this morning, but it feels impossible for him to even contemplate the idea of food. He’s on-edge. He’s stressed. Hell, he thinks he feels a headache coming on, which  _really_  shouldn’t happen because he had a migraine just the other day. He just wants to get back to school, where the environment is familiar. This is why he hates field trips. It throws off his rhythm. He hates leaving to go somewhere, when he’s already somewhere else. He knows it’s just him being picky.

**Fun Fact: Craig doesn’t care.**

The walk isn’t nearly as short as Mr. Douchebag makes it out to be. It’s maybe five or ten minutes, which wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t below freezing outside. They pass numerous shops and buildings along the way, and some kid tries to board a bus that isn’t here for their school. Mr. Douchebag leads them all the way to the aforementioned mall area, and brings them up to that second-floor food court, and probably quotes some play, but Craig isn’t listening.

Craig isn’t looking for food. He doesn’t have the money to spare. Hell, he doesn’t have  _any_  money with him, so he wouldn’t be tempted to spend it. He follows the class into the main area, where plenty of tables and chairs are there for people to sit and eat. He takes a seat at a small, empty table near the back wall, which just so happens to be across from a pizza place.

 **Craig:**  
**I. reclines in the chair**

**II. puts his hands into his pockets, and**

**III. rests the back of his head against the wall behind him.**

He only gets a few minutes of respite. Tweek comes up soon, sliding casually into the seat next to Craig, like nothing had happened between them. It might be stupid— hell, it likely  _is_  stupid—, but Craig is still a little put-off by the comment Tweek had made. Craig wants to argue, wants to ask  _why the hell would you say something like that?_  but he doesn’t. He stays silent. He lets Tweek talk about whatever the hell it is he’s talking about. Craig decides he doesn’t give a damn about what happened earlier.

Except he does.

Craig isn’t listening to Tweek. He’s mad. It’s stupid, but he’s mad. It’s all stupid. He hates it. He doesn’t even want to fucking be here.

Craig sits normally. He pulls his hands out of his pockets. He rubs the side of his neck, where it’s starting to ache. He probably leaned in a weird way. Or maybe he’s actually getting a headache again. There’s no way this is another migraine. This is how migraines start, but he had one the other day, and he usually never has two in such quick succession. It just doesn’t happen.

“Babe, are you okay?” Tweek asks. He has a sandwich and some chips in front of him, but he hasn’t touched either item. He’s just been talking. Like he always does. Craig is surprised at how bitter his thoughts are.

“I’m fine,” Craig says. He drops his hand, to further his point, but Tweek doesn’t drop it.

“Are you getting a headache?”

“No.” But Tweek doesn’t fall for it. He frowns.

“Did you sleep last night? Did you eat? Where’s your food?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat, Craig,” Tweek scolds. He’s light, but it’s still the same difference. Craig is beginning to get annoyed. He wants to say things. He wants to say a lot of things.

 **He wants to say:**  
**I. "Stop telling me what to do,"**

**II. "Stop telling me what I need," and**

**III. "Stop acting like nothing happened."**

He says none of them.

Tweek starts to stand, saying, “C’mon, lets get you some food,” but Craig tells him no. He is firm, he is immovable, he is certain. He knows he’s begun to glare, but he doesn’t care. He’s irritated. Tweek picks up on this and frowns. “Why not?”

“I don’t have the money,” Craig says. Tweek makes a face.

“I can buy something for you,” Tweek says. “It’s really not a big—”

“It is,” Craig says. Tweek goes silent. “Five bucks for a sandwich, two for a bottle of water, seventy-six cents for the bus, it doesn’t sound like a lot to you, but it is.”

Tweek’s expression changes. His brows furrow, his mouth still frowns, and he looks like he doesn’t understand. “What?” he asks. He sits back down, facing Craig fully. Craig wants to get up and walk away, but he doesn’t. “Dude, you’re still hung up on that?”

“What, that you insinuated I’m a beggar?” Craig huffs. “Yeah, I’m still hung up on that.”

Tweek is shocked. “That I what? Babe, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t ‘ _babe_ ’ me.” Craig’s tone has become irate. He almost cringes at it. He’s just glad there are no active spectators. That would be uncomfortable. The food court continues to bustle, aromas of pizza and burgers from fast food stations filtering from the moving air. “If that’s not what you meant, what did you mean?”

“You and your logic!” Tweek says, gesturing pointedly. “I was mad at Butters, okay? And then you came in with your— your  _logic,_  it— Jesus, man, it drives me crazy sometimes! That’s what I meant!”

He’d gotten a little loud, and a couple classmates overheard the spat. They are looking at them, watching them argue. Craig ignores them. It isn’t about them. It isn’t about the spectators. It isn’t about the public. It’s about  _them_. It’s about their  _relationship_. The integrity of it, the honesty. They’re arguing. They haven’t argued over something in a while.

Tweek drops his head into his hands, his elbow hitting the bag of chips as he leans on the table. “Jesus,” he says. His eyes are squeezed closed. Undoubtedly, he is thinking. It takes a moment for Tweek to begin talking again. “Jesus, Craig, Jesus.”

Craig wonders if that’s all he’s going to say, but it isn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Tweek says. “I shouldn’t have… made that comment, earlier, it was stupid.”

Tweek looks up. They meet each other’s eyes.

“I wasn’t saying you were a beggar, and I wasn’t… making a dig, or anything, at your financial situation, okay?” Tweek’s being sympathetic. Craig appreciates that. He analyzes his own reaction. He feels bad for jumping to conclusions. He feels bad for being so bothered, and he feels guilty for trying to push him away. He hadn’t acted rationally. He hadn’t acted calmly.

“I’m sorry for getting mad,” Craig says, but the phrase doesn’t sound right. He shakes his head. “I mean, I’m sorry for not talking to you about it, and—”

“It’s okay, Craig, I get it.”

Craig nods. He wants to explain himself. “I just—”

Tweek doesn’t let him. “Craig, it’s okay, I understand.”

Craig is a little hurt at the interruption. He wonders if Tweek really cares, which is really stupid, because  _of course_  Tweek cares. Craig just doesn’t like being cut off like that. He’s really  _trying_ , here.

Tweek picks up half of the sandwich, offering it to Craig. Craig doesn’t take it, and when Tweek realizes he’s stiff, he leans in and whispers, “We can talk about this later, okay? I don’t want to make our issues public.” Tweek holds the half of the sandwich out more insistently, leaning back from Craig to say in a slightly louder mutter, “For now, let’s just try to enjoy ourselves... please?”

Tweek smiles. Craig tries to return it, but it’s tiny. He doesn’t know if Tweek caught it. He decides to just take the offered sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	41. Act VI Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group watches them leave.

On the bus ride back to school, Tweek and Craig mutually agree to revisit the topic tonight at Craig’s house. They agree that Tweek will spend the night, and they will set time aside just to talk to each other about _them_. It sounds very sappy, but it’s truthfully rather technical, and that’s something that Craig likes. It’s a meeting. They’ll discuss the workings and try to find solutions. Problem-solving is Craig’s thing. People and emotions is Tweek’s thing. It’s important to both of them, in different ways.

They split for third period and find each other before fourth. Craig notices that Tweek is looking rather panicky, and he doesn’t know why. He tries to ask, but the bell rings and they both head off to fourth without anything of an explanation. He decides he might ask Tweek about it during their “meeting” tonight.

Craig typically doesn’t sit in the cafeteria for lunch. He prefers to sit in the library, where he can read books and study for whatever classes he doesn’t want to think about when he gets home. The only reason he changes his groove today is because of Clyde. Indirectly, at least. He’s mid-walk to the library after fourth period, when he remembers Clyde’s story on Stan and those guys’ lunch extravaganza just last week. The other night comes full-force. He remembers it. He acknowledges the details, and the text conversation. He is still concerned— in a technical way— about Stan.

It feels ridiculous to hang around the lunch room, wandering until he spots Stan. Some people give him weird looks, but he ignores them. He eventually finds them at a table near the back. They’re all discussing something. He waits for them to fall silent before he approaches.

**The people at the table:  
I. Butters**

**II. Kyle**

**III. Kenny, and**

**IV. Stan.**

Craig grabs Stan’s shoulder. Immediately, Stan looks up.

“Hey, Marsh,” Craig greets. He notices something.

 **Stan:**  
**I. is wearing different clothing than usual**

**II. looks tiredly well-rested, and**

**III. has made his hair look nice.**

**(IV. has changed; is taking care of himself.)**

Craig runs his fingers through Stan’s hair. It is pleasantly soft. Craig says, “Your hair looks dumb.”

Stan rolls his eyes and fixes his hair. “Right, yeah, I forgot I was supposed to ask your permission for all of my fashion choices,” Stan says. Craig pushes an extra chair between Stan and Butters.

“Oh, okay,” Butters says. Craig sits down in the chair without hesitation. Stan isn’t happy.

“Um, dude,” he says.

“What?” asks Craig. “You got a problem with me sitting, fuzzball?”

“Yeah, I got— wait, did you just call me fuzzball?”

Craig shrugs. “Seemed fitting, all things considered.”

“Will you shut up about my hair?” Stan asks.

“What the fuck are _you_ doing here?” Kyle snaps. Craig looks at him.

 **Kyle:**  
**I. has dark circles under his eyes**

**II. looks a little thin, and**

**III. has a secret, but Craig doesn’t care about it.**

**Fun Fact: Kyle hates Craig.**

“Dunno, but it’s not you, that’s for sure,” Craig says.

Kyle’s shock is funny. “Excuse me?” he hisses.

Craig flips him off.

“Guys, stop, no more bickering, it’s lame,” Kenny cuts in. He has just finished a cheeseburger, and he crinkles the wrapper in his hands. “Craig, do you need something?”

Craig crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Yeah, I got some shit to talk to fuzzball about.”

“Stop calling me fuzzball,” Stan mutters.

"No," Craig replies.

Confused, Kenny ignores their interaction and says, “Um, okay, talk to him, then.”

Craig doesn’t budge. He looks at Kenny, tries to make eye-contact in a way that’ll say what he can’t. He wonders if Kenny knows about Stan’s purchase. He wonders if Stan knows of Kenny’s involvement with Craig’s business. Kenny’s expression twitches. He throws the wrapper at Craig. Craig, trying to prove a point, still doesn’t budge. It hits his arm and falls to the floor. There’s a moment of silence. Then, Craig leans in, a little insistent in his movements. Butters makes a noise, but he doesn’t care why. Craig looks at the entire table, one by one, and says, “ _Alone_.”

“This is our table, go talk the talk over yonder,” Kenny argues. He gestures to the back wall.

“You can have the table back when I’m done here,” Craig says. “I just need it for a few minutes.”

Kyle comes back into the conversation with, “Stop being all cryptic and just _talk_ already, whatever you say to him, you can say in front of us.” Kyle hunkers down more firmly at the table. Ridiculous.

Craig looks at Stan. Stan has this look on his face— the scared look, the _I don’t know what to do_ look. Fuck it. Craig grabs Stan’s sleeve and stands the two of them up. He asks, “You coming, Marsh?” but Craig drags him away from the table without awaiting an answer.

The group watches them leave. Craig doesn’t care.

Craig brings Stan to the drinking fountains. He contemplates bringing him into the adjacent bathrooms, but decides that’s stupid. Craig backs himself into the corner next to the drinking fountain. He crosses his arms. He leans against the wall. Stan, uncomfortable, shoves his hands into his jeans pockets.

“What do you want?” Stan asks. Craig’s neck still hurts. He rolls it to help the ache. He can hear someone shuffling in the bathroom. Stan frowns a little and adds, “What?”

Craig nods behind Stan. Stan turns around. Whistling, Clyde walks out of the bathroom. He stops everything at the sight of Stan and Craig.

A pause. 

**Clyde:  
I. mutters "huh,"**

**II. spins on his heel, and**

**III. walks right back into the boy's bathroom.**

**Fun Fact: Clyde is an idiot.**

Stan turns back to Craig.

“You pulled me over here to watch Clyde be an idiot?” Stan asks. Craig shakes his head.

“No, that was just an added bonus,” he says.

“The fuck is he even doing in there?”

“Fuck if I know.”

 **Stan:**  
**I. scratches the side of his neck**

**II. shifts his weight, and**

**III. doesn’t acknowledge Clyde when he comes back out and walks away.**

Craig starts to drum his fingers on his arm, thinking how it’d be best to approach this. Eventually, he asks, “Why?”

Stan blinks and responds, “Why what?”

“The LSD,” Craig says. “Why?”

Stan shrugs. “Dunno,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck.

**Fun Fact: Stan is lying.**

**Fun Fact: Stan knows he’s lying.**

**Fun Fact: Something is wrong here.**

“Bullshit,” Craig says. He uncrosses his arm. He rests an elbow on the drinking fountain. He uses a vague gesture. “You know exactly why, you’re just not saying it.”

“I honestly don’t know,” Stan says. Craig steps away from the drinking fountain, coming close to Stan.

 **Stan:**  
**I. is trying not to smile**

**II. tips his head down, and**

Craig pushes Stan as an experiment. As a _snap out of it_. As a _think about this._ As a _talk to me, Marsh._

**III. smiles.**

“What’re you smiling at?” Craig asks. No response. “What the fuck are you planning, Marsh?”

Stan makes a noise. Stan covers his mouth. Craig is shocked.

“Are you seriously laughing?” he asks.

“You’re fucking _worried_ about me,” Stan says. Craig shoves Stan’s shoulder again. Stan stumbles a little.

“Worried about you?” Craig says. He’s not _worried_ about Stan. He just… “I’m not worried about you, it’s just painfully obvious that something is going on with you, and I don’t want you to do anything fucking stupid.”

Stan’s still laughing, even as he says, “I’m not gonna do anything _stupid_ , dude.”

 **The words of Stan Marsh (revisited):**  
**I. “But I want to.”**

_You’re lying to me. You’re lying right to my face._

“Whatever,” Craig says. He’s not worried. He glances to the table. “You better get back to your dumb friends.”

Stan hesitates. Craig finds it interesting, but it’s too late. Stan says, “Yeah, whatever.” But he doesn’t look like he wants to. He looks exhausted. He almost looks pained.

_It’s not too late, Stan. Talk to me._

**Stan:**  
**I. pulls his sleeves over his hands**

**II. crosses his arms, and**

**III. hugs them tightly to himself.**

Craig backs up.

Craig says, “If you ever need to talk, you got my number.” But he’s not worried.

“Yeah, whatever," Stan repeats.

_You already said that._

Craig kicks Stan’s ankle. Stan ignores Craig. Craig flips him off.

Craig isn’t worried.

**Fun Fact: That’s a lie.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	42. Act VI Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That’s the cue.

Since Tricia is away for band rehearsal, Craig and Tweek have the house to themselves. It serves their purpose of meeting and working things out between them rather well, and Craig is thankful for that. They have at least two hours alone, and with that information in mind, they decide to have the talk downstairs in the living room. The light helps keep Craig in socialization-mode, and Tweek just typically likes to be in wide-open spaces, rather than small rooms. He gets up to grab some snacks from the refrigerator, and Craig settles himself down on the floor. Craig pushes the coffee table out of the center of the room so they can talk without anything between them, and still sit on the floor. The couch feels too cramped.

Craig’s phone buzzes. He’s reluctant to check it, at first, because he knows how Tweek feels about it, but he eventually decides it can’t hurt. Tweek is in the kitchen. It’s not like they’re actively talking. Craig puts in his code and pulls up the message app, where he has received a message from Stan.

IdIoT  
  
**Today** 15:21  
hey whats LSD supposed to taste like?  
  


Craig responds immediately.

IdIoT  
  
it is not supposed to taste like anything y r u asking, u asshole  
  
did u take it, u dick  
  
if it is bitter it is a spitter u kno that rite, u idiot?  
  
what? Why?  
  
y the fuck do u think, u fucking moron  
  


There’s thirty seconds— or maybe a minute— where Craig receives no response.

IdIoT  
  
i swear 2 god if u took it and it is bitter i am coming over right now, u dumbass  
  
calm down man, I didn’t take it, ok? I was just wondering for future reference.  
  


Craig doesn’t know if he should believe him.

IdIoT  
  
i do not fucking believe u  
  
I didn’t take it.  
  
swear  
  


Again, it takes Stan a bit to respond.

IdIoT  
  
I swear.  
  
swear on ur mothers life, fucknut  
  
dude, a lil excessive there, don’t you think?  
  
i am coming over.  
  


If Craig didn’t already have plans, that would be true. He hopes the threat does what he means it to.

IdIoT  
  
omfg fine I swear on my moms life I didn’t take it.  
  


_Are you lying? I can’t tell. You better not be lying._

IdIoT  
  
that is more like it.  
  
do not take it until i can be around i do not trust u to do this shit safely on ur own, u freak  
  
when will you be over?  
  
not today i am busy, fuzzball  
  
k.  
  


Something feels off about it. Maybe it’s just the way things had gone throughout the day, or maybe it’s just Craig reading into things that aren’t there. Either way, whatever it is, there’s something weird that he can’t shake.

Craig looks up when he hears shuffling. Tweek is coming out of the kitchen. He has two cups of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets them down on the coffee table. Tweek glances up at Craig, frowning at something. “What’s wrong?” Tweek asks, sitting down on the floor across from Craig. His jeans scratch against the carpet.

In the moment, Craig contemplates bringing up his conversation with Stan. It might be a good idea to do that. Tweek would probably understand— or be able to afford him some sort of comfort, maybe. Tweek seems to understand Stan more than Craig does, from the minimal amount he’s heard from Tweek about the guy. The only thing he remembers is Tweek bringing up the fact that Stan is lying about something, though. Even Craig had picked up on that.

**Craig:**  
**I. silences his phone**

**II. turns it off, and**

**III. puts it face-down on the coffee table.**

“Nothing,” Craig says. It’s a lie. He knows it. He wonders if Tweek suspects it. If he does, he doesn’t say anything about it. Craig picks up the cup of hot cocoa Tweek had gotten for him from the kitchen, using his sleeves to keep from burning his hands. “Stan’s just being an idiot, he needs to do his research.”

“Yeah, he does,” Tweek agrees, picking up his own cup. He sips from it leisurely, moving to sit cross-legged. “He’s actually pretty smart, though, have you noticed that? He’s a good problem-solver.”

“Is he?” Craig asks. He doesn’t look up from his cup. He takes in the light scent of chocolate. It’s nice. A strange dichotomy, with the topic of Stan.

Tweek makes a noise of affirmation. “From what I’ve seen, at least… he’s in my math class, and he came up to me today, asking if he could use my calculator.” Tweek took another sip from the mug, momentarily shutting his eyes with the taste. Craig listens to the story, trying to cool off his own drink by blowing on it. “I was like, ‘sure, just as long as you teach me what the fuck we’re supposed to be doing’— because, well… you know, numbers aren’t my best subject.”

Craig nods.

**Fun Fact: Tweek has a learning disability. He hasn’t disclosed the specificities with Craig, but that’s okay.**

“He helped me out a lot,” Tweek says. “He was absent the day we learned the material, but he still knew how to do it, man— he didn’t even need to be taught it, I mean, damn. I don’t know how the hell he managed to figure it out on his own.”

Craig finds the information interesting, but not particularly riveting. He wonders if this is Tweek defending Stan because he feels obligated to, or if Tweek genuinely thinks that Stan is some secret mathematical genius. He doesn’t try to push for an answer on that front. Tweek seems more keen on the message than the story, anyway.

Tweek is half-done with his hot chocolate. “But, yeah, so he’s not legitimately stupid, or anything, he just…”

“Lacks common sense,” Craig says. Tweek laughs quietly at that.

“I guess that’s a good way to put it,” says Tweek. He sets his cup down on the coffee table, and scoots a little closer to Craig. That’s the cue. That’s Craig’s cue to start listening, because Tweek is going to officially start their meeting— they’re both going to officially start the meeting. Craig takes a sip of hot chocolate for energy before setting it down on the coffee table next to Tweek’s.

It takes them a moment to find a good place to start, and when they finally do, surprisingly enough, it’s Craig who initiates it. He asks, “Why were you so bothered by Butters giving that guy money?”

Tweek makes a humming noise, thinking on that. He presses his lips into a tight line. “I just… I got a feeling from the guy, y’know?” he says. Tweek fidgets with the end of his shirt, running his thumb over the plastic of the bottom button. “He had new shoes, did you see that? Jesus, man, his shoes looked _new_ , and he was decked in plenty of gear— I’m not saying that’s a reason to think he’s not poor, or didn’t need the money, I just… it set off alarm bells, and…”

More fidgeting. Tweek looks up at Craig, his brows furrowed in a very sympathetic way.

“I hate it,” Tweek says. “I hate even the idea that people who don’t need money go around asking for it, just because they don’t have exact change, or because they think it’s a quick way to get, like, I don’t know, an extra dollar— it makes me really angry, man, and it makes a bad name for the people who actually need the money to survive. It makes it a joke, and I hate that.”

Strangely enough, Tweek laughs. It is not an amused laugh. It is a nervous laugh. He stops fidgeting with his shirt in favor of combing his fingers through his hair, separating the chunks and making it frizz. Craig watches.

“Then again, I don’t really know if I can talk on it,” he says. “I’m not living it, so I can’t really, like, say my approach is the best approach, because it’s probably not.”

That sticks out to Craig. He’d never thought of it like that. He doesn’t think that’s a good way to think about issues. “Babe,” Craig says. Tweek looks up again. “You don’t need to live through something to be able to sympathize with it.”

Something in Tweek’s eyes shifts. They look a little wet, like he’s about to cry. But then that dampness is gone, and Tweek is back to being his usual self.

**Craig wonders:**  
**I. if that was real**

**II. if he actually saw it, and**

**III. if he is imagining things.**

“Yeah, you’re right,” says Tweek. “I guess it’s just one of those things that I feel like… like, I don’t know what it’s like, and I’m afraid of speaking up on it because I’m afraid of doing the wrong thing? And it’s really _important_ to me because I know you—”

Tweek cuts off. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t like saying it. Craig knows that’s because he’s concerned with Craig’s feelings on it. Craig finishes for him. “That I don’t have a lot of money?”

Craig doesn’t use the word “poor” because he doesn’t consider himself poor. Even if they could technically consider themselves poor, even if they have to skip meals to have enough for Craig’s meds, even if his dad hasn’t been properly employed in a year because of bullshit reasons— Craig hasn’t genuinely used the word _poor_ to describe himself and actually meant it. Kenny is poor. Kenny walks everywhere, Kenny works two jobs not counting the drug selling, and Kenny only just got a phone to be able to text in case of emergencies. That is poor. Craig may be unfortunate, financially— but he isn’t poor.

The money Craig gets from his business goes straight to his parents. He doesn’t keep any of the profits. It’s funny, because his parents still haven’t caught on to his business. He wonders if they even notice the extra money popping up in their wallets.

Craig closes his eyes for a moment, recollecting himself.

“Honey, you don’t need to worry about it,” Craig assures him. Tweek still doesn’t look convinced, though. He chews on his bottom lip, fixing his sleeves and wiggling where he sits.

“I know, I just— I’m… I wish you didn’t have to do what you do,” Tweek says. “I really wish you could… stop doing it.”

“Stop doing it?” Craig asks. “I can’t stop doing it, it’s good money.”

“I _know_ it’s good money, I just… I’m scared you’re going to get caught up in something that you can’t fix, and I’m really scared that—” Tweek’s expression twitches, his eyes wide and full of emotion. The wind outside picks up. Craig can hear the snow outside, blowing off of rooftops and across the street. Tweek admits, “I’m really scared of losing you.”

Craig scoots closer. Tweek keeps talking.

“Selling the stuff you do is dangerous, Craig, it’s illegal,” Tweek says. Tweek perks up, looking around the room like he expects to see someone. “It’s illegal, and I— oh, god, what if they’re listening…?”

“There’s no one listening, Tweek,” Craig says.

“You don't _know_ that.” Tweek slouches, burying his face into his hands. Craig scoots as close as he can, gently putting a hand on Tweek’s shoulder. Tweek wipes at his eyes, sniffing wetly. He’s trying to pull himself together. He’s trying really hard. “Jesus, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Craig says.

Quiet. Tweek settles down. He breathes. Craig, does, too.

“And you want me to stop selling?” Craig asks.

Tweek nods. Craig’s throat squeezes. He shouldn’t have asked. He knew the answer, and he can’t do anything about it. He can’t stop selling. He can’t. If he could, he would drop it in a heartbeat, but he can’t, he fucking _can’t_ , okay? His parents need the money. Tweek sniffs again. “I can help you, Craig, I can get you a job at the coffee shop, I can…”

“Babe,” Craig says, but it comes out more like a whisper. “Babe, you know I can’t, my parents won’t let me get a job.”

“So lie,” Tweek says. “Hide it like you’ve hid the drugs.”

“Honey—”

Tweek gives Craig this look. This look that reads so much pain, so much hurt, so much ache. He looks like he’s ready to start crying. He looks like he’s ready to start pleading. Craig can’t keep looking at that face. Those eyes remind Craig of Pandora, when she gives him this knowing look. Puppy-dog eyes. Begging.

“I’ll try,” Craig says. He reaches forward, wiping away the tears that have started to roll down Tweek’s cheeks. Tweek shudders a breath. Craig continues, “I’ll see what I can do, okay? But don’t try and give me money, and don’t worry about finding me a job, it isn’t your responsibility.”

Another sniff. Tweek nods, leaning into Craig’s touch.

**Craig:**  
**I. is lying, because**

**II. selling drugs gets him very good money, and**

**III. he’s afraid a normal job won’t keep his family afloat like the drugs have.**

“If you need help, I’m here,” Tweek says.

Craig takes Tweek’s hand within his own. He says, “I know, honey, I know.” Because he does. Tweek has helped him through a lot. He will never ask for money or a job from him. Tweek's emotional support and comfort is more than enough. That’s what it’s about. Craig loves Tweek and wants to keep him happy. He wants to keep him safe.

“Okay, enough from me, tell me how you feel,” Tweek says after a minute. He's looking up again, and Craig finds himself drawn to his eyes. He's drawn to the temptation of speaking. Tweek notices something amiss. He must, otherwise, why would he try to insist? Tweek asks, soft, “What are you thinking about, Craig?”

The temptation is enough. Simultaneously, it is too much. It is everything and nothing, something needed but not wanted, something that feels sinful and selfish. He doesn't know how to do it. He dwells in something comfortable, instead. “Did you know,” Craig says ~~(fidgeting, unsure, _something_ )~~, “that only five percent of Abell two-seven-four-four's mass is actually made of galaxies?”

**Something, something, something:  
I. Tweek smiles, but**

**II. it's sad, like**

**III. he is disappointed, yet**

**IV. he indulges in Craig's interests.**

“Really?” Tweek asks, the same way he always does when Craig says that fact. Tweek takes Craig's hand in his own and asks the same follow-up question as always: “What's the other ninety-five percent of the mass?”

**This is:  
I. a routine**

**II. how they've settled, and**

**III. the normalcy that Craig craves so much.**

**(IV. so Craig starts talking.)**

Tricia comes home an hour later. Craig and Tweek are still sitting on the floor, indulging in interstellar conversation.

**Fun Fact: It's hard to get Craig to shut up about space.**

She forces them to move the coffee table back into place, then tells them to get out, she wants to watch television. They have settled by then, and Tweek laughs because of how blunt she is.

**Fun Fact: Tweek and Tricia always got along pretty well— much to Craig’s exasperation.**

**Furthermore, some notes:**  
**I. it's snowing again**

**II. Craig and Tweek head up to Craig's bedroom to bond over a 500 piece puzzle**

**III. an ambulance passes through the neighborhood, and**

**IV. Craig leaves his phone downstairs.**

  
**END ACT SIX**  
**“The Professionals”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	43. Intermission VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING  
> for non-con/sexual assault/rape

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A THUNDEROUSLY LOUD MOUNTAIN — NIGHT**

In the scene, a teenage boy navigates blindly. Thunder crashes in the distance, and waves crack upon the shores— mountainous rocks below him scream, echoing white from the salt that has dried. Rain pelts from the sky like hale, making his hair stick to his forehead and giving his clothes a distinctly plastic quality. Clouds roar by in whips of shadow, coiling like a monstrous snake that tries to follow him when he is awake. The wind forces itself into his airways, making him choke out things he doesn’t think make sense.

There’s a spring, sickeningly tight in his stomach, right behind his navel and pounding up to his lungs. He feels it like the straps of overalls, too firm and ripping from him the things that matter most. The limbs that are his arms, the importance of his legs, the— the spread— the spreading of—

All of a sudden, it’s a reminder. Something that snaps across his wrist like a hair tie or a rubber band, something that encompasses his entire self, winding up his diaphragm and making him feel the sense of doom. The builders, the trees, the rain, the _please, please no_. He cannot breathe. _He cannot breathe_ , and between the storm of the mountain and the calm of Craig’s room, Tweek can’t figure out where he _is_ anymore.

There is a third place that bubbles up from the sea foam, sizzling his entire being until he’s standing somewhere he doesn’t want to be, somewhere he can’t see but he can feel. It’s a horrid trichotomy— a cacophony of hell, a scrape of nails along his sides and a terrified knowledge of being trapped. The dark exudes, the light perforates, dissects him and splits him open and in half and in quarters and in _eighths_.

Tweek scrabbles for something to hold onto. He scratches at something in the air, that’s both warm and cold and freezing and old and trying to reduce him to something little more than a pile of ash. Twigs. Broken, shattered leaves, they fall from that tree, the tree he used to have but _doesn’t anymore it’s gone_. It’s gone and they _took it from him_. _They_ took it _from him_.

 _I don't know where I am_.

“Stop—”

There’s a hand squeezing his stomach, making him feel things he doesn’t want to. It makes him feel out of control and like he’ll never know normal again, like his body isn’t his own. It cracks his brain, that realization, that he doesn’t want this to happen, he doesn’t want to feel this, but he can feel it, he felt it, he will always feel it, and he’s afraid because he doesn’t know if maybe that’s his fault, maybe he wanted it maybe he did maybe it was him _maybe maybe maybe_ —

“Please, I don’t want—”

The thunder cracks, the storm rages, but it isn’t real. He tries to blink it away, but the more he does, the less of it he sees, and the more of the place he doesn’t want to be— _the place he doesn’t want to be_ becomes more visible, even in its dark, even in the cold it fakes, he can feel the thick velvet curtain against his back. He can see the blinding lights that are always on in the auditorium.

But he isn’t in the auditorium, he’s in Craig’s room, and he logically _knows that but it’s not going away please stop I don’t want please stop I don’t want_

_“What’s the first rule of improv?”_

_“Never say no!”_

_“What’s the first rule of improv?”_

_“Never say no!”_

_“What’s the first rule of improv?”_

“I was raped!”

Craig’s bedroom snaps back. Tweek stands facing the bed, where Craig sits cross-legged. Tweek has his hands clenched against his stomach. He wheezes through blinding tears, trying to force away the feeling of it happening over again, trying to ignore the fake dark, trying to do so many things at once and failing at every single one. His breath huffs and whimpers in his throat. He’s reduced to something broken. Something beaten, something battered, something _denied-and-denied-and-denied_ , but it’s true.

Tweek whispers, “I was raped.” He’s still crying. His head hurts from the effort. He just wants to feel normal again. He wants to feel sane. Finally, he lets go of his stomach, raising his hands to wipe his face and dry his eyes.

In that moment, Tweek hates himself. For breaking down, for telling someone, for being bothered. He feels weak. It’s ridiculous, but he feels weak. Like he shouldn’t be fucked up from it.

Like it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

_Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was._

Tweek looks up, afraid of what he’ll see. Craig looks terrified. He’s pale, his eyes are wide, and he speaks.

“Baby, no,” Craig says, like denying it will make it go away. Like it’s a sick joke he refuses to be a part of. Tweek tries to choke back a sob, but it doesn't work, and Craig keeps talking, saying, “Oh, god, oh, baby, _no, h_ _oney_ …”

  
**BEGIN ACT SEVEN**  
**“Randez-Vous”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this was hard to write and it's hard to post. i'm so sorry.  
> national sexual assault hotline, if needed:  
> 1-800-656-4673  
> resources for those inside and outside of the usa:  
> http://www.ibiblio.org/rcip/internl.html  
> 


	44. Case Study #7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Tweek Tweak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING  
> for non-con/sexual assault/rape

**CASE STUDY #7:**  
**TWEEK TWEAK**

_Some very important facts about: Tweek Tweak_

_Tweek Tweak is a natural blond, with the most beautiful hazel eyes I have ever seen. Those hazel eyes are commonly wide, afraid, or nervous. Sometimes, they are happy. Sometimes, they are smiling. It is not rare for them to fill with tears. But no matter what, Tweek Tweak is wonderful. Tweek Tweak is perfect like that._

At first, Craig thinks it’s part of the monologue. The emotion is too raw. The words are too jumbled. The panic is too real. Even so, he wants to imagine, Tweek is just that good of an actor. It didn’t really happen. And if it did, this isn’t how he should find out. Craig is afraid.

Craig says, “Baby, no.”

But Tweek, shaking like a leaf, nods just the slightest. It’s gentle. It’s silent. It’s almost invisible. But it is there. Tweek begins to sob. Tweek presses a hand (right) over his mouth. Tweek presses a hand (left) over his stomach. He doesn’t look like he’s about to be sick. He looks like he’s trying to stifle the crying. It’s very early (6:00 AM), and Mrs. Tucker is still home. Mr. Tucker is at work. Tricia is sleeping.

Craig says, “Oh, god, oh, baby, no, honey.” He doesn’t want to say it, but he does. The words are useless. But he can’t help it. Because he knows it’s real. Tweek is telling the truth. Tweek isn’t acting.

_Side Note: Tweek Tweak is a talented actor._

Craig stands up from the bed. He hesitates. He doesn’t want to do anything wrong. He steps forward. He pulls Tweek into a hug. Craig wants to ask many questions. He wants to ask who. He wants to ask what. He wants to ask where. He wants to ask why. He wants to say,  _what the fuck._ What the fuck? When?

He doesn’t ask anything.

He lets Tweek cry into his shoulder. He lets Tweek dig his nails into his shirt. He lets Tweek try to stop hyperventilating on his own. He lets Tweek have his time to ride it out.

Craig tries to comfort. He says, “It’s okay, honey, I’m here.”

Craig hates his voice. He’s overwhelmingly aware of how unsympathetic he sounds. He wonders if the hug is okay. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe he jumped too fast. Maybe he screwed up.

Who did this?

What happened?

Craig is terrified. What if it was him? Did he do something? He didn’t do anything, did he? No, he didn’t do anything. He would remember it. But there’s this piece of him that asks him if he’s sure. If maybe he overstepped somehow, somewhere, without realizing it. It doesn’t make sense, because they’ve never gone that far, but the fear is there nonetheless. He tries to pull away, afraid that he’s making it worse, but Tweek sobs louder, pulling Craig closer and crying.

Tweek says, “Don’t leave me alone, please, I’m sorry, I’m not broken, I’m the same, I’m still me, please.”

Craig says, “Okay, babe, okay, I’m not leaving, I’m right here, I’m right here.”

_Relationship: Tweek Tweak is my favorite person in the whole world._

Minutes (10) pass. The shock wears off. It becomes anger. Craig doesn’t display it outwardly. He knows better than to do that. But he is pissed off. He is afraid. He is livid that someone could— would—

Did…

Oh, fuck. Craig feels sick.

They sit down on the bed together. Tweek is no longer crying as hard. He’s silently, gingerly weeping, letting the tears fall down. He doesn’t expend energy forcing them away. They curl up together, above the covers. On their sides, they face each other. Craig strokes Tweek’s cheek until he can speak. Tweek says, “I'm sorry.”

Craig says, “Don't apologize.”

Tweek says it again.

Craig says, “It wasn't your fault.”

Tweek goes quiet.

Craig asks, “Can we talk about it?”

After a pause, Tweek says, “I don't want to.”

Craig respects that. It goes against his instinct to know. It goes against his instinct to find out who did this. It goes against his instinct to protect. But he respects it. Craig says, “You're in control, here.”

Tweek eventually says it was after the spring play, but that's all the information he gives.

Craig wants to know why Tweek didn't say anything sooner. Craig doesn't ask, but Tweek can tell. Craig receives two (2) answers and one (1) request, peppered through conversation.

Answer one (1): “I was afraid.”

Answer two (2): “I wanted to be strong.”

Request one (1): “Please don’t be mad.”

Craig says he isn’t.

_Footnote: I will kill whoever hurts him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> national sexual assault hotline, if needed:  
> 1-800-656-4673  
> resources for those inside and outside of the usa:  
> http://www.ibiblio.org/rcip/internl.html
> 
>  
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome.


	45. Act VII Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig feels things.

Craig makes the executive decision to skip school with Tweek. Tweek tried to argue. He tried to convince Craig it was a bad idea. He tried to say many things.

 **Tweek said:**  
**I. “I’m fine, you know that, right?”**

**II. “This is ridiculous,” and**

**III. “You better not be doing this because of what I told you.”**

Craig wonders if, in some ways, he was doing something very wrong. All he wanted to do was help, and Tweek never once specifically said he _didn’t_ want to skip. He didn’t try to leave for school on his own. Even so, though, he wonders if that matters. He protested a lot, but in very roundabout ways, and it made Craig’s head feel confused with thoughts of _I want to protect you_ and _I don’t want to make it worse_.

 **Some things:**  
**I. Mrs. Tucker has left for work**

**II. Mr. Tucker is still at work, and**

**III. Tricia has left for school**

**(IV. they are home alone.)**

Craig feels things.

 **Craig feels:**  
**I. on-edge, like**

**II. he can no longer touch Tweek, even though**

**III. he knows he can**

**(IV. Tweek told him so.)**

Craig finally asks if Tweek wants to go to school. He wants to have the day with Tweek, but if Tweek wants to go to school, Craig will drive them both before it starts and they’re late.

“Well,” Tweek says, squeezing his shirt between his hands, “I mean, of course I don’t _want_ to go to school, but—”

Craig doesn’t have the emotional energy to do all of these brain-gymnastics. Tweek isn’t being direct, and as much as Craig hates to admit it, he doesn’t have the patience for it right now. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t portray his irritation in his voice— not to his knowledge, at least, but he’s not the best indicator of whether a tone comes across or not.

**Fun Fact: Craig has been told in the past that his tone can come off as rude, even though he’s not trying to be.**

“Babe, can we skip together?” Craig finally asks, as quiet as possible. Tweek doesn't seem offended, so Craig knows his tone is in check. The light from the living room window is bright and forces him to squint. He has his car keys in his hand, and he is prepared to drive just in case. They have ten minutes until school starts. They either leave now, or they’re going to be late. Craig hates being late. It just complicates a simple process.

Tweek begins to run his fingers through his hair, pulling in some places. Craig can hear his fingernails scratching against his scalp.

_Stop that, honey, you’ll hurt yourself._

“Fuck it!” Tweek says, his face red with a certain flush. “We’re skipping!”

Craig is afraid Tweek is only saying that to appease him. But then Tweek smiles, and Craig doesn’t feel afraid anymore. He’s still anxious, and he’s still nervous that he might be making everything a million times worse while trying to make it better, but… logically, logically, _logically_ — there is no reason for him to be fearful. If he just acts the way he’s always acted, everything should be fine.

 _Don’t treat me any differently_ , Tweek had said. _Don’t treat me any differently, I’m still me. Nothing has changed._

Craig is still in shock from the news. He needs to fix it. No, that’s the wrong term. He needs to re-calibrate his brain. It’s swirling so fast, in so many intervals, that he can’t even remember where he is.

**Fun Fact: Living room. He’s in the living room.**

Tweek hasn’t made him this nervous in years. It hurts to know the reason for his nervousness has changed.

Craig keeps his keys in his hands as a fidget. He hooks his fingers through the key chain, runs his thumb over the teeth of the key, traces the outlines of the buttons but takes care not to press any. They sit on the couch, but don’t turn on the television. They don’t talk. Not for a while. It’s quiet, and Craig can count the ticks of the clock. He can compare the rhythm to that of his breathing. If he places his hand over his heart, he can compare it to his heartbeat.

He does. He smooths his palm over his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. He finds it. He counts seventeen beats in ten seconds. Seventeen times ten is one hundred seventy. One hundred seventy divided by two is eighty-five. Subtract his sisters’ age from eighty-five, he gets seventy-one, which is how old his grandmother was last year. Last year he was sixteen. Subtract sixteen from seventy-one, you get fifty-five. Subtract seven, his father’s age. Subtract his own age, thirty-one. Thirty-one days in January. It is January. Subtract thirty-one from thirty-one = zero.

“Craig? Are you okay?” Tweek asks, putting a hand on Craig’s shoulder. Craig opens his eyes, which he hadn’t realized he’d closed, and looks over. Tweek’s expression holds concern. Craig doesn’t understand why.

“I’m fine,” he says. Tweek quirks a brow.

“What— uh, what are you doing?”

“Counting,” Craig says. He pulls his hand away from his chest. That’s probably what was concerning to Tweek. It isn’t normal for people to feel their heartbeat in comparison to a clock, is it?

“What were you counting?” Tweek asks.

Craig opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t know how to explain it. Instead, he settles for the widely accepted and technically not incorrect, “Everything.”

The keys are still in his hand. He turns them over in his palm. He looks at them. He examines the shape. He examines the color. He examines the texture.

 **The keys are:**  
**I. weighty**

**II. asymmetrical, and**

**III. a good fidget.**

Craig comes up with an idea.

He stands up from the couch. He holds his hand out for Tweek to take. Tweek looks confused, but he takes Craig’s hand nonetheless. His skin is cold, but that’s the only thing that’s different.

**Fun Fact: _Nothing_ is different. Craig is just afraid of messing up irreparably.**

“Get on your shoes,” Craig says, “We’re going for a ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome


	46. Act VII Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Granted, that doesn’t take much.

Craig drives them to a field-area just outside of Park County. He’s known about it since he was a kid. His dad used to bring him here to watch the fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s been years since they last did that, and although he only remembers the images of the grass, it still holds a special place in his heart. It’s one of those areas that he can go years without thinking about, but still love more than his bedroom. Granted, that doesn’t take much.

Craig parks off the shoulder, in the grass. Well, where there _would_ be grass, if snow wasn’t covering it. This area has a very different aesthetic when it’s winter. Craig almost likes it better. The air feels still and calm and almost frozen, like they could spend forever here without losing any time. It’s illogical, he knows, but it’s a nice thought nonetheless.

There’s a very large hill that cuts off at the road. It, too, is covered in snow. It’s probably icy on some places, or slippery from the light dusting of snow, but Craig is certain it’ll be fine. It always is. Everything almost always turns out okay, somehow. Right?

“What is this place?” Tweek asks, climbing out of the car. Craig follows suit, embracing the cold. The wind blows. It chills him thoroughly, but it’s still mild enough for him to feel comfortable with just a sweater, and not a jacket. Tweek wears his coat. He needs it more. It fits him pretty well.

Craig pulls a blanket out of the back seat, and is completely prepared when Pandora bounds out of the open door. She darts around the back of the car and immediately starts up the hill. Craig adjusts the blanket in his arms and closes the car door. He locks it. He pockets the keys. When he looks up, he sees Tweek is following Pandora quickly up the hill. Tweek is calling after her, telling her to _stop, jesus christ!_

Craig walks up the hill after them. Tweek looks stressed, even though Craig assures him that Pandora won’t run off. She’s well-trained in that regard, and even if she _did_ decide to run off, she likely wouldn’t be gone for long. Proving this, Pandora stops once she reaches the top of the hill, walking around in little loops and sniffing the ground. Craig places the blanket down at the top of the hill.

 **Details:**  
**I. Tweek sits down on the blanket**

**II. Craig sits down with him, and**

**III. Pandora continues to explore the top of the hill.**

“Is she going to be okay?” Tweek asks, rubbing at his hands. It’s a nervous habit, not a cold habit. Craig knows the difference. Tweek isn’t shivering, and his face isn’t very red. Tweek is watching Pandora as she wanders around them.

“She’ll be fine,” Craig says. “She’s acclimated to cold weather and—”

Pandora drops and starts to roll around in the snow.

Craig continues, “She likes winter.”

Pandora hops back up. She shakes off some of the snow that’s stuck to her coat, and makes her way over to Tweek. Tweek is still nervous. He starts to brush away the rest of the snow, muttering something about how he doesn’t want her to freeze. Craig doesn’t say anything to it. He knows that tone. Tweek is talking to himself. He does that, sometimes.

After a few minutes, Pandora decides to sit between Craig and Tweek on the blanket. Craig pets down her back and feels to make sure she isn’t shivering. As soon as she starts to show signs of getting too cold, they will go back. He assures Tweek as much, and at that, Tweek seems to calm down a little more.

Some cars pass by on the road below them. They watch from the top of the hill, enjoying the area for what it is and allowing them to feel comfortable in the way they always have. For a bit, Craig can forget the big unsaid thing between them. He can ignore the facts that he doesn’t want to. He can pretend that _the thing_ didn’t happen, and Tweek isn’t different in any way. Because he’s not.

How did he hide it for so long? Craig decides not to talk about it.

“Why are we here?” Tweek asks, pulling his gaze away from the road. Craig meets it momentarily before looking down at Pandora. She’s still okay.

“You kept talking about a mountain,” Craig says. He looks up. “So I brought you to the mountain.”

It isn’t a mountain. It’s just a hill. They both know that, and they know it well, but Tweek doesn’t care and neither does Craig.

Tweek looks a little like he might start to cry. His eyes are wet, like they had been last night during their meeting. Craig doesn’t want him to cry. He’s not good at comforting people. He always feels guilty because it’s hard for him to navigate it. He tries his best. That’s all he can do.

“Craig, you didn’t have to,” Tweek says.

“I wanted to.”

It’s cheesy. Craig looks out over the expanse of snow he can see from atop their “mountain”. He finds himself picking threads and fuzzes out of the blanket they sit on. It’ll get too wet to use, soon, but it’s a nice cover between them and the snow, at least for a while.

“I think, um, I get why you like mountains so much, maybe,” says Craig. It’s a hesitantly bold statement, but he knows Tweek won’t judge him. They’re at a point where, even if Craig did fuck up his interpretation, the most Tweek would do is chuckle and tell him he’s off the mark.

“Yeah?” Tweek asks. “What do you like about this?”

More cars pass by. Pandora licks Craig’s hand. Craig doesn’t understand why, until he realizes he’d been rubbing at his knee.

Craig sniffs. He remembers Stan’s punch.

Craig says, “We’re on top of the world.”

Tweek smiles.

Tweek takes Craig’s hand.

And Tweek says, “We really are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome


	47. Act VII Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His brain feels full.

Craig’s mother is at home waiting for them when they get back. She’d decided to take her lunch break early, when she got the call from the school that Craig was absent. She took the keys away from Craig and drove Tweek home herself, instructing Craig that he was to stay downstairs with Pandora until she got back. Craig didn’t want to wait downstairs for her, but he did, nonetheless.

When she got home, she immediately began to give him a firm talking-to. It’s all he can do to block it out.

“You skipped school?” she cries, dropping her hands onto the dining room table. Craig sits across from her, unmoving.

 **Mrs. Tucker:**  
**I. is upset**

**II. is angry, and**

**III. is disappointed.**

Craig has his hands shoved into his pockets. He leans back in his chair. He doesn’t watch her face. He knows what he’ll see. It’ll just be two eyes, staring angrily back, with an expression twisted up in that same emotion.

 **Craig supposes:**  
**I. he is ashamed**

**II. he did something wrong, and**

**III. he shouldn’t have done it.**

“Look at me!” his mother says.

_Please don’t make me._

Craig looks up at her. His brain feels full. His neck wants to tilt. His shoulders want to tense. His hands want to lift. He wants to do a lot of things, but he does none of them, because he doesn’t want to dig himself into a deeper hole. He assures himself she’s rightfully angry, and he assures himself it’s only because she doesn’t understand the situation.

He considers telling her about what Tweek told him, but he doesn’t. He can’t break trust like that. They will have to tell someone, eventually, but— he can’t. He doesn’t want to hurt Tweek. Craig decides he’ll take the heat.

 **Craig:**  
**I. has always been the bad influence, so**

**II. is fine with taking the blame, especially since**

**III. is the one who caused all the trouble in the first place.**

**(IV. is going to ruin Tweek, isn’t he?)**

“Why did you skip?” his mother asks him, but she doesn’t give him the chance to respond. “What told you that was a good idea? You’re struggling enough as it is, Craig, do you understand how serious this is? You could get held back! You could get expelled!”

Craig wants to say he isn’t struggling, but he knows that’s a lie. He’s bad at focusing his energy on things he doesn’t want to do. The only classes he enjoys are his aerospace engineering class and French— and even then, he only enjoys French because he’s good at memorizing the patterns of conjugation and words.

“You’re grounded, Craig,” she says. Craig doesn’t react. He’s distracted by the things in his brain. He needs to make sales today. Clyde is supposed to buy more shit. Some other kids he doesn’t care enough about to remember their names are supposed to make purchases.

 **Craig has to make money:**  
**I. so the heat isn’t shut off again**

**II. so they can afford medicine, and**

**III. so he can fix the car.**

He can tell them to meet him here. It’s fine. He’ll have some time to himself before everyone gets home. He hates making sales here, but he’ll do it if necessary. He can be grounded. It’s fine.

“I’m taking your phone,” she adds. Craig supposes he won’t be contacting anyone, then. His plan is ruined. He needs a backup plan. He should have thought about this. How did he not think about this outcome? Did he not care? He’d forgotten. He’d fucking forgotten about it all. His mother gives him rules.

 **The rules:**  
**I. Craig will not leave the house**

**II. Craig will stay in his room**

**III. Craig will do homework**

**IV. Craig will think about what he’s done**

**V. do you understand?**

Craig understands. His mother tells him she is disappointed. He knew that already. She tells him he’s going down a bad path. He knows that already. She tells him he needs to get into college. He knows that already. She tells him he won’t get anywhere if he keeps doing this. Craig knows.

 **Craig knows:**  
**I. knows**

**II. knows, and**

**III. knows.**

She tells him she’s spent too long on her lunch break. She expresses her distaste for pulling her out of work. She says many things, but it’s at about this point that Craig fully, truly, absolutely, stops listening.

 **Craig:**  
**I. is upset**

**II. is angry, and**

**III. is disappointed.**

**(IV. in himself.)**

**His mother:**  
**I. takes his phone from the coffee table**

**II. takes the keys, and**

**III. leaves him home alone.**

**Pandora:**  
**I. sits at his feet beneath the dining table**

**II. stares up at him with that look, and**

**III. seems to know something he doesn’t.**

**Fun Fact: Everyone seems to know something he doesn’t.**

Craig pets Pandora a few times. He wipes her paws off with a warm cloth, because he didn’t get the chance to earlier, and makes sure her food and water bowls are filled. When she’s distracted with a chew toy, he makes his way upstairs and shuts himself up in his bedroom.

His mother told him he is to stay in here today. He’s fine with that. He hates the dark of his room, and he hates the smallness of it, but he’s fine with it. It is just a room. He opens the curtains, but keeps the light off so he doesn’t waste money.

 **Things:**  
**I. his parents always tell him not to worry, but**

**II. it’s hard not to worry when he’s the cause, because**

**III. his medication, while**

**IV. he doesn’t have to get refills too often,**

**V. is still expensive.**

**(VI. Craig wonders if he should just suffer the migraines.)**

Craig could go for food. He checks in with himself. He decides he’s not hungry enough to eat.

He is tired. He crawls into bed. He sits with his back against the wall. He laces his fingers together. He watches the floor.

He takes a moment just to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	48. Act VII Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re too bright.

They’re back in the auditorium. Out of a class of thirty, two people are absent. One of those people is Brad. The other is Butters. Craig finds it funny that the two people that are absent both have nicknames that start with the letter B. He shares his amusement with Tweek, who chuckles with him like it’s actually funny. Craig knows it’s not funny, but he appreciates the reaction, even if he knows it’s fake. It shows that Tweek cares, and while Craig already _knows_ Tweek cares, it’s nice to have it confirmed every once in a while.

Mr. Douchebag starts class with an exercise called “Yes, Let’s!”

 **The Rules:**  
**I. everyone wanders around the stage aimlessly**

**II. regularly, someone random person from the group shouts a task (example: let’s ride a T-Rex!), and**

**III. everyone else must respond with “Yes, Let’s!” — no matter what the task is.**

Mr. Douchebag seems to think the game is quite amusing. He also says the game helps with improv, because it reaffirms the first two rules.

 **Those rules:**  
**I. never say no, and**

**II. say “Yes, and”.**

Ultimately, Craig finds the game boring. As he wanders, listening to the ridiculous tasks people suggest, he keeps an eye on Tweek. Tweek hasn’t told him what happened with _The Thing_ , but he has a sneaking suspicion it has _something_ to do with improv. At the very least, it has to do with theater. He could be totally off-base, of course— it might just be the reminder of being unable to deny anything that freaks Tweek out, but Craig doesn’t want to take any chances.

Tweek looks fine, though. He even offers some of his own statements.

 **Tweek’s tasks:**  
**I. “Let’s have a midlife crisis!”**

(“Yes, let’s!”)

**II. “Let’s babysit a flock of wild geese!”**

(“Yes, let’s!”)

**III. “Let’s go to outer space!”**

(Even Craig chips in on that one as the class shouts, “Yes, let’s!”)

Today, Tweek seems happy. He’s smiling brightly, and chatters with the freshmen and sophomores who come up to ask him about all things theater. Craig hangs out near the back of the auditorium during break, thinking about the lights that blind him from seeing the empty chairs in the audience. He can’t count them. They’re too bright.

At one point, Tricia comes up to him to ask what the fuck possessed him to skip yesterday. He tells her he didn’t skip, and when she points out the fact that he’s lying, he flips her off.

Mr. Douchebag calls the class back to order. He shaved his beard at some point this week, so he looks weird. The class circles up on stage. He stands in the center, like always, and introduces a new game. He calls it “Freeze”.

 **The rules:**  
**I. two volunteers stand in the middle of the circle**

**II. those two begin an improv scene**

**III. when the scene starts to die, a student from the circle shouts, “Freeze!”**

**IV. the two volunteers in the center freeze in whatever poses they’re in**

**V. the student who shouted taps the shoulder of one of the frozen volunteers**

**VI. the student copies the exact pose of the person they tapped**

**VII. the person who was tapped leaves the scene to stand in the circle with the rest of the observing students, and**

**VII. the two new people in the middle must initiate an entirely different improv scene based on their pose.**

Mr. Douchebag asks for two volunteers. A few people raise their hands.

 **Those people are:**  
**I. Tricia**

**II. one of Brad’s friends, and**

**III. Tweek**

Mr. Douchebag calls on Tricia and Tweek. Tweek looks confident, but Craig feels anxious. He remembers the last improv exercise they did in class. Tweek had a panic attack. Craig doesn’t want Tweek to put himself through that, or run the risk of it, but at the same time, he knows a fact.

**Fun Fact: Tweek is his own person, and he is capable of making his own decisions.**

This might be what Tweek needs, and Craig won’t get in the way of that.

Tricia starts the scene.

“Oh my god, I _love_ your hat,” Tricia says, putting on the thickest valley-girl accent she can possibly muster. Some other students snicker in the circle, watching the scene in rapt attention.

“Oh my god, _thank you_ ,” says Tweek. It’s crazy. One minute, he’s Tweek— the kid who used to be too afraid to order food on his own. The next minute, he’s an annoying valley-girl with a hat, chewing bubblegum. “I got it at the pet store, I always thought they had the best summer items.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Tricia squeals— apparently their running joke is ‘oh my god’—, hopping up and down excitedly. “I _know_ , right? Once I found this _totally fetch_ leash— it’s technically made for dogs, but, what’s wrong with interspecies cross-dressing? It was so _in_ last year! Can I try on your hat?”

Something happens. It’s minuscule, and no one seems to notice, but Craig does. Tweek suddenly looks a lot less confident than he had been previously. He falters. “Oh my god, of course,” he says. He lifts his hands up to take off the “hat”, his expression tight, and—

“Freeze!”

Tricia and Tweek freeze in the position they left off in. The rest of the class stops and turns to look at Craig. Craig feels all of the air leave his lungs. He is suddenly very aware of the fact that everyone has eyes. He is suddenly very aware that everyone is staring at him. Everyone is waiting for him to do something, because he’d acted without thinking, and that’s not something he does— was he _really_ the one to shout that?

He was. He totally was.

Well.

Fuck.

Craig takes it in stride. He exits the circle and walks right over to Tweek. He taps Tweek on the shoulder. They make eye contact. Tweek gives Craig a look. Craig focuses his energy on deciphering it, making sure he isn't doing something wrong.

 **Tweek's look is:**  
**I. afraid, and**

**II. relieved.**

Craig nods towards the outer circle. Tweek loses the pose and walks away to stand with the rest of the observing students. Craig swallows thickly and takes on Tweek’s pose.

Craig has to initiate an improv scene, now.

_Come on. Think._

Craig has his hands above his head. He’s “holding” something. Tricia is still frozen, waiting for something to go off of. Fuck. Think. _Think_. What could he be holding? What could they be doing? What’s roughly the same size as this “hat”? He wrecks his brain trying to think of a line from somewhere, from _something_ , that he can pilfer.

Finally, he thinks of something he can use.

“I got a biology textbook,” Craig says, “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

Craig wonders how Stan is doing. He hasn’t seen him all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	49. Act VII Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s light, but it’s there.

Craig waits near Tweek’s locker after school ends. Tweek isn’t going to show up for a while. He was cast into the one-act play and he has to pick up a copy of the script. Craig is absolutely fine with waiting, though. He would wait forever if he had to. It’s cheesy, but it’s the truth. He wants to make sure Tweek is okay. He wants to apologize for being a dick, because he feels very suddenly aware of just how crappy he’s been. There is something.

 **The truth:**  
**I. Craig loves Tweek so much**

**II. Tweek has been so good to him**

**III. Craig doesn’t deserve him, and**

**IV. Craig wants to make sure Tweek knows he loves him.**

**(V. because he really, really does.)**

The hallways are empty. The school is silent. Craig busies himself by examining the numbers on all of the lockers. S4360. S4361. S4362. S4363. S436…

4.

**Fun Fact: Locker S4364 belongs to Stan Marsh.**

Something strange blooms in Craig’s chest. He remembers the conversation with Stan from Monday. It’s probably stupid, but Craig feels a little weird. In a technical way, he is concerned.

**Fun Fact: [Revisited] Craig hasn’t seen Stan at all today.**

But that’s probably just him being paranoid. He’s gone weeks without seeing Stan, before. Stan’s always been one of those people that stood in the background. Stan was always fairly inconsequential, really. They never saw each other in the hallways, and if they did, they didn’t acknowledge each other’s existence. They wouldn’t even interact, if it weren’t for Craig’s business.

Craig decides he’ll spend tomorrow observing Stan. As much as he hates to say it, the idiot is interesting. Fuck it. He admits it, he has become a little attached to Stan, even if Stan _is_ a pussy.

Tweek arrives, jogging around the corner of the hallway and panting. His face is red, and he is out of breath like he has just been forced to run a mile. Craig’s brain immediately jumps to concern. He pulls his hands out of his pockets. Tweek stops a few feet away from him, leaning over with his hands on his knees.

“Sorry—” Tweek says, raising a hand in apology. “It took so long— they… ran out of scripts… and I had to… go to the office and… print one out, then they asked if I could help… push a… oh, Jesus, one of those stupid chair cart things?”

Craig nods. Tweek takes a minute to breathe before continuing the story.

“Fuck, man, and I had to run that down to the… fuckin’, y’know, the gym closet, and I had to take the… what’s it called? The thing that goes between floors?”

“Elevator,” Craig offers. Tweek nods, enthusiastic.

“Yeah, that stupid thing, and then I had to— fucking Christ, man, tote some kid’s stupid shit to the lost and found and then I realized I forgot my fucking script in the printer.” Tweek laughs, still flushed and out of breath. Overall, though, he looks pleased and upbeat. “It was a hell of a run, but… I got it!”

Tweek raises his script into the air, straightening up as he does so. Craig’s heart does a squeeze thing. A good squeeze thing. A squeeze thing that makes it really hard to focus on staying still. Without thinking about it, Craig blurts, “I love you a lot.”

Tweek’s expression turns from happiness to tempered shock. He’s still smiling, but it’s intermixed with a look of confusion. “I love you, too,” he says. He drops his hands back down by his sides. The script crinkles as he adjusts his grip. The smile brightens, like he’s going to say something funny, but he doesn’t say anything. It makes Craig a little nervous, but he pushes the nervousness away. He feels like he’s about to make a fool of himself.

“I have a question,” Craig says. Tweek hums, shuffling through the script and flipping through the pages to make sure he has all of them. Craig hesitates, afraid that he’ll come across as stupid or weird. He doesn’t know how to explain it. “Would you do a monologue for me tonight?”

Tweek looks up. “What— why?” he asks.

Craig’s stomach does a not-quite-pleasant thing. This is why he keeps his attention on environments. Paying attention to internal things just makes him feel overly aware of everything. “Um,” he says. He pauses. “I want to listen to you and your thoughts, and you’re really good at monologues, and it seems like you like them, and...”

The words jumble up in his throat. He tries to clear them, but it’s useless. His voice has gone silent again. It’s annoying, and a little humiliating, but he trusts Tweek more than he trusts himself. And Tweek doesn’t look hurt or angry. He’s smiling. It’s light, but it’s there. “Do you really want me to, or are you just saying that?” he asks. Craig shakes his head.

“I really want you to,” says Craig. The monologues are a topic of interest for him. He didn’t understand them, before, but now he does. He’s learned to truly appreciate Tweek’s words. “Your brain is interesting.”

Wait. Maybe that wasn’t a good thing to say. Did that come out wrong? Craig adjusts himself nervously. He moves to put his hands into his pockets, but then Tweek holds out a hand, and Craig knows that look. He knows that gesture. Craig takes Tweek’s hand without question. Craig starts talking again.

“I didn’t mean that— like, you’re not a puzzle to me, or anything, I’m just— I love you a lot, and I want to know everything—”

Fuck. That didn’t come out right, either.

“I mean—”

“Babe, it’s okay,” Tweek says. He’s chuckling. He pulls Craig’s hand to his mouth and kisses Craig’s knuckles. He lowers their hands back down to a more casual level and adds, “I understand, and I appreciate it. I love you, too.”

Craig feels reassured. At the same time, he feels guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says. Tweek’s brows twitch down.

“For what?” he asks.

“Being stupid,” says Craig. Tweek rolls his eyes.

“You’re not being stupid,” Tweek says. “You’re being really sweet.”

Craig can’t help it. He smiles.

They decide to go to Craig’s place. Before that, though, Tweek has to retrieve his things from his locker. Craig hovers beside him as he collects his belongings, watching the corridor that surrounds them. It is still empty. It is likely it will be for a while. After-school activities are held at the other side of the school.

When Tweek is done with his locker, Craig takes Tweek’s hand and laces their fingers together. Tweek squeezes, firm and reassuring. Craig always prided himself on the rarity of his blushing. Before Tweek, he never really knew what it felt like to blush. That changed. His face feels warm. It feels tingly, and like he can’t stop smiling. He’s happy, and he wonders if Tweek is, too. He—

“Hey, what’s that?”

Craig looks up at Tweek’s words, glancing over to where he’s pointing. Tweek is gesturing towards locker S4364. Stan’s locker. He’s about to ask what Tweek means— it’s a locker, not exactly spectacular— but he doesn’t get the chance. Tweek slips his hand out from Craig’s and wanders over. He pulls something out from the vent at the top. The item makes a crackling noise, just like Tweek’s script, but thinner and more catching. It’s a piece of notebook paper.

Craig is intrigued.

“What is that?” This time it’s Craig that’s asking. Tweek, his brows furrowed, shrugs his shoulders. He unfolds it, careful of the curling and ripped edges. Craig steps behind him to gaze at the sheet over Tweek’s shoulder. He notices a few things.

 **The paper has:**  
**I. Terrance and Philip doodles**

**II. Stars of David done in pencil, and**

**III. words written in a different language**

“Is that Hebrew?” Craig asks. Tweek nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Stan’s not Jewish, is he?”

“No,” Craig says. “Kyle’s the Jewish one.”

Tweek snorts in amusement, though there’s something beneath the tone. “Man, do you think this is some inside joke between them?”

Craig shrugs. “Maybe.”

Tweek glances at the locker. “Should we… put it back?”

“Probably.”

There’s a minute of silence.

Stillness.

“Do we _have_ to?” Tweek asks. Craig gives Tweek a look. He doesn’t know why Tweek would want to keep it. Neither of them understand Hebrew, and it’s just a useless piece of paper.

So Craig says, “Why wouldn’t we?”

 **Tweek:**  
**I. folds the paper**

**II. puts it back, and**

**III. leaves with Craig.**

  
**END ACT SEVEN**  
**“Randez-Vous”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daily updates will continue, at least for the time being. that may change. i'll let y'all know. :)
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	50. Intermission VII

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. AN UNCHARACTERISTICALLY BORING MOUNTAIN — DAY**

In the scene, a teenage boy has fallen quiet. The mountain he feels and finds so calming is there, but it isn’t the thing he wants to see. It isn’t the thing he wants to feel, and it isn’t the thing he’s interested in exploring. It’s not common that he finds himself feeling adventurous, but the days in which he does tend to be good, and he doesn’t have it in him to deny the adventurous feeling in him. Many things about the adventurousness is freeing to him, and it would be utterly criminal to pretend the feeling didn’t exist.

Happily, Tweek drops the mountain and regains Craig’s bedroom.

Tweek takes a moment to gather himself, and then simply brushes his palms off on the front of his shirt. When he is finished with the action, he looks up. Craig stares at him with a mild note of confusion in his eyes. He slept well last night, so he is more expressive than usual. It’s perfect for what Tweek plans on doing.

“Come here,” Tweek tells him. Craig glances around the room as if Tweek might be addressing someone else, but when Tweek waves his hand in beckoning, Craig slides off his perch on the bed and approaches. Pandora is asleep near the foot of that bed, her head resting on the tops of her paws.

When Craig is close enough to touch, Tweek lifts his hands and places them, gingerly, upon Craig’s shoulders. He grips the fabric of Craig’s hoodie, and turns the both of them around a full one-eighty. Tweek only stops when he is the one with his back to the bed. The corners of his mouth twitch up in the beginnings of a smile, noticing the way Craig is looking into his eyes. It might sound strange, but the eye contact means a lot to Tweek. It means a lot to Craig, too, just in a different way.

Tweek gives Craig a gentle kiss on the cheek. Then, he lets go. Tweek backs up until he can hop up on the bed. When he’s settled, he can tell that Craig is caught off-guard by the suddenness of it all. He watches Craig give the room another wary glance, like he isn’t sure what the hell he’s supposed to do. Knowing Craig, it’s likely he doesn’t. So, Tweek says, “Your turn.”

Craig doesn’t outwardly respond to that— not for a while. It’s quiet. A few minutes or so into the silence, Craig asks, “My turn for what?”

“For monologues,” Tweek answers. Craig lifts his brows ever so lightly.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” Craig says.

“Bullshit, man,” Tweek returns brightly. He shuffles to get a little more comfortable on the bed, crossing his legs and resting some of his weight on the palms of his hands, which press behind him into the mattress. “I’m always up there talking, and you’re always down here listening… let's switch things up, okay? I wanna hear you.”

Craig shoves his hands into his pockets. “Babe, I think you’re forgetting monologues aren’t my thing.”

“Then don’t think of it as a monologue,” suggests Tweek. “Say what you feel, say what you know, say what you want _me_ to know… this is safe, Craig, I won’t judge you.”

Abruptly, Craig says, “This session was supposed to be for you.”

“This _is_ for me,” Tweek replies. Craig still looks wary. Tweek, in many ways, can understand why. He makes a humming noise to get Craig’s attention. Craig perks up. Their eyes meet. Tweek smiles. “Please?”

And this time, very softly, Craig nods.

For a long time, nothing further is said. It is just Tweek, Craig, and a snoozing Pandora. Eventually, Craig pulls his hands out of his pockets to fidget with the pull-strings of his hoodie. Tweek observes, marks it as a possible character trait, and readies himself for something similar to the action.

“Sometimes…” Craig begins, very quietly. He glances up from his fixed stare at the floor, but then immediately turns away when their eyes meet. Tweek tries not to over-analyze it.

Craig goes silent once more. He curls his index finger in the drawstrings of his hoodie— and then lets them go. His hands fall to his sides.

“Sometimes I feel like an alien,” Craig says. And it is so simple. “Like I don’t belong anywhere, and...”

There is a look on Craig’s face, that Tweek sees, that Tweek _knows_ , is genuine.

“I don’t know why.”

With his eyes downcast, Craig hugs himself, and Tweek knows he is finished.

There is a knock—

( **BAM-** _Tweek-_ **BAM** _ **-**_ _flinches-_ **BAM** )

—on the front door.

  
**BEGIN ACT EIGHT**  
**“The Brain of Craig Tucker”**


	51. Case Study #8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Kyle Broflovski

**CASE STUDY #8:**  
**KYLE BROFLOVSKI**

_Some very important facts about: Kyle Broflovski_

_Kyle Broflovski is a natural red-head, with blunt hazel eyes, and sharp features. Those sharp features have become more prominent in the past few weeks. Kyle Broflovski has lost weight. Kyle Broflovski has dark circles under his eyes. Kyle Broflovski has a strong presence. Kyle Broflovski is undeniable like that._

Craig opens the front door. Broflovski barges in like a bull. Broflovski rams himself into Craig with all of his strength. Craig stumbles backwards. His ribs ache from the impact, but he’s too distracted by everything else to be caught up in the pain.

Broflovski recoils. His face is red. His eyes are wet. Tears coat his cheeks. He’s breathing heavily, shaky and loud. There is a moment (6.3 seconds) of respite. Then, Broflovski charges again. He throws himself at Craig. Craig catches him by the shoulders. Broflovski beats against his chest with the heels of his palms.

Broflovski screams, “ _You asshole!_ ”

Craig says nothing. Craig grabs Broflovski’s wrists. Broflovski wrenches himself out of Craig’s grip. Broflovski latches onto Craig’s shirt with hooked fingers.

Broflovski cries, “ _You sold him drugs?_ ”

Craig says nothing. Craig’s chest hurts. Broflovski shoves Craig backwards. When Craig doesn’t stumble, Broflovski yells something that doesn’t sound like English, but Craig can’t tell. Broflovski is livid and fuming.

_Side Note: Kyle Broflovski is Jewish._

Broflovski shouts, “I hate you! I hate you, I _hate_ you, _I hate you_ , _I-hate-you_ - _I-hate-you!_ ”

_Relationship: Kyle Broflovski hates me, but I don’t really care about him one way or the other._

Tweek comes down at the noise. His footsteps are heavy against the stairs as he hurries. He practically misses the landing.

Tweek asks, “What’s going on?”

Craig opens his mouth to reply, but he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what Broflovski is talking about. Broflovski lifts his hands. He wraps them around Craig’s throat. Craig’s breath catches.

Broflovski says, “I could kill you! I could kill you _right now!_ How would you like that? _How would you like that? Answer me!_ ”

Craig tries to talk, but the pressure on his throat is too much. He chokes. Broflovski’s grip tightens. His nails dig into Craig’s skin. Craig pushes at him. Broflovski is saying more, but Craig is too focused on trying to breathe to hear him properly.

Tweek pulls Broflovski off of Craig. Craig gasps in air. Broflovski howls. The tears come faster. Broflovski sniffs. He struggles against Tweek. Tweek keeps Broflovski’s arms pinned to his sides.

Tweek says, “Are you fucking kidding me right now? Kyle, what the fuck is wrong with you, man?”

Broflovski squirms sharply. The side of his head comes into contact with Tweek’s jaw. Tweek doesn’t even flinch. Broflovski sobs. His legs give out. Tweek guides him safely down to kneel on the floor. Tweek crouches with Broflovski. Broflovski grabs Tweek’s shirt.

Broflovski repeats over and over, shaking and whimpering, “He overdosed, he overdosed, he overdosed…”

Craig swears his heart stops. His legs lose strength. His knees can't support him. He lowers himself to the floor. He keeps a safe distance away from Broflovski. Broflovski is unpredictable. Broflovski is dangerous. Broflovski is going through a lot.

Broflovski gasps for breath and whines, “Stanley, Stanley, _Stanley_ …”

Tweek has gone pale. Broflovski leaves wet spots on Tweek’s shirt. Craig lowers his head into his hands. Broflovski begins to keen, low and remorseful and horrified.

Broflovski’s voice cracks. He says, “You killed him, you killed him, you-killed-him-you-killed-him-you- _killed-him-you-killed-him-you_ —!”

Broflovski gasps again. He shakes. Tweek strokes his back. Craig feels sick.

Broflovski whips his head back. His eyes are drowning, dark and shallow and empty. He is back to shouting, “ _You sold him drugs?_ ”

Craig breathes. Craig slouches. Craig breathes. Craig runs his hands through his hair. Craig breathes. Craig says, “I needed the money, oh fuck, I needed the money.”

Broflovski snaps. He rips away from Tweek. Broflovski lunges at Craig. Tweek grabs Broflovski and holds him back. Broflovski says, “You _needed the money? Is that supposed to MAKE IT BETTER?_ ”

Broflovski hollers. There are no words. It’s just a sound, from deep in his chest and high in his throat at the same time. It rips through the air. The door is still open. Cold breezes draft in. There is a rabbit, out there. It peeks from behind a dying bush. The eyes of the rabbit are plastic buttons. Thick. Sturdy. Purposeful. The rabbit runs away.

Broflovski has ruined his throat. When he speaks, he is raspy. He is barely able to whisper, “You heartless bastard, you psychopath, you murderer, you son of a whore…”

Craig says, “I didn’t mean—”

Broflovski tries to scream, but he’s hoarse. “You what? You _what?_ You didn’t mean to _what?_ _To what?_ To leave him on a ventilator? To stick a tube down his throat? To put him into _a coma?_ You didn’t _MEAN to?_ ”

Craig says, “I didn’t want to sell to him.”

“Then why?” Broflovski draws in a gravely breath. He sucks air between his teeth. He squeezes his eyes shut. Tears drip from his chin to his lap. “Why did you do this? _Why-why-why_ did you take him _away from me_ …?”

Broflovski, tired and worn and unable to say any more, falls silent. Broflovski drops his head down. He hugs himself. He shakes. Silently, he weeps. Craig, eyes wide and feeling dizzy, can do nothing other than watch.

_Footnote: Kyle Broflovski really loves Stan Marsh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think this is a good time to reintroduce this:  
> Suicide is never the answer.  
> hotline number, if needed:  
> 1-800-273-8255  
> you're not alone.  
> list of numbers for those outside of the usa:  
> http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome.


	52. Act VIII Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it is.

Craig sits.

 **The details:**  
**I. Craig sits on the couch, with**

**II. his elbows on his knees, and**

**III. his head in his hands.**

Tweek sits beside him.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. strokes Craig’s back**

**II. brushes Craig's hair with his fingers, and**

**III. whispers _it’s going to be okay._**

Kyle has gone home.

 **Kyle:**  
**I. did not tell them the specifics**

**II. did not reattempt to hurt anyone, and**

**III. left ten minutes ago.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: Stan is in the hospital.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: Stan is in a coma.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: ~~Stan is going to~~ [omitted]**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It’s all Craig’s fault.**

Time passes. Craig doesn’t count it. He ignores it. He pushes the clock’s ticking away. He closes his eyes against the world. He thinks about things. His brain is in a loop. 

**It tells him [logically, logically, logically]:  
I. it's his fault**

**II. it's his fault**

**III. it's his fault.**

Because it is.

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It’s all Craig’s fault.**

Craig shuts down his thoughts. He doesn’t want to think them, anymore. His head feels full of words and pictures and empty platitudes and niceties and things he should be saying. He should be moving. He shouldn’t be as affected as he is. He wasn’t very close to Stan. And yet—

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It’s all Craig’s fault.**

—he can’t help but feel so horrid. Craig wants to wallow in his self-pity, but Tweek won’t let him. He’s still whispering, saying it’s okay, saying things will be alright. He doesn’t lie and say Stan will be fine, but he does lie and say something along the lines of _It wasn’t your fault._

Craig swallows. His stomach is tight and angry. He feels sick. But he’ll be fine. He wonders if Tweek is okay. He wonders how Tweek is handling it. Craig forces himself to sit up. He forces himself to ignore the ache, and ignore the hurt, and ignore the stinging in the back of his brain. He ignores the dizzying thoughts that tell him this didn’t happen, he’s dreaming, he’s just dreaming, he’ll wake up any minute now to find out Stan’s perfectly fine— to find out he wizened up and didn’t sell Stan anything that could have attributed to his—

_Push it away. Tweek is hurting, too._

Craig lifts his head and looks at Tweek. Tweek is frowning. His eyes fall at the corners, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to cry. He’s holding himself together really well, or maybe it hasn’t set in yet. Admittedly, Craig can’t believe it. It just seems so… ridiculous. Stan can’t be _gone_ — and he isn’t, not technically, he’s just in the hospital. He’s just unconscious, technically, even though he could still die.

**~~Fun~~ Fact: Stan will likely die.**

Craig’s brain can’t wrap itself around that. It doesn’t feel real.

“How are you holding up?” Craig asks, taking Tweek’s hand in his. Tweek’s expression tenses, like he’s unsure of how to react to that. The muscles in his hand tighten, but he doesn’t pull away. Tweek rests his other hand over the back of Craig’s.

“I’m fine,” Tweek says. He’s trying to assure him, and it’s kind of working, but also not. “How are _you_ holding up?”

“I’m fine, how are you?”

Tweek's expression changes. “You already asked that.”

Tweek is right.

Craig can’t stop the words from coming out.

“Stan’s not going to die, right?” he asks. He sounds like a child. He sounds immature and stubborn and he hates it. Craig swallows the thickness in his throat and looks down at the floor. He sniffs.

**He remembers:  
I. Stan's punch**

**II. the fight**

**III. pushing Stan into a snowbank (telling him, "Do not fucking hit me ever again, Marsh,")**

**IV. making Stan's lip bleed, and**

**V. the bruise on Stan's cheek.**

Craig had put it there.

**Craig had:  
I. put that bruise on Stan's cheek**

**II. split Stan's lip**

**III. sold Stan drugs**

**IV. gotten Stan high, and**

**V. pushed Stan over the edge.**

_I killed him._

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Craig asks. He draws in a breath. He’s embarrassed by it, because the air stutters in his throat. It sounds like a shallow gasp rather than an inhale. His mouth feels empty, the way it does before he starts to cry. He forces it back. He sniffs again. Tweek smooths his hand over Craig’s back. Craig’s next breath sounds a little like a whine. “He’s Stan, Stan can’t die, he can’t, it’s Stan and those idiots, he can’t…”

Craig is being irrational. Craig tells himself as much. He shuts his eyes as tight as possible, thinking his way through the things his brain throws at him. It becomes too much, however, and he forces his brain to stop.

**Fun Fact: Only five percent of Abell 2744’s mass is actually made up of galaxies.**

**Fun Fact: The Hand of God is a pulsar in the constellation of Circinus.**

**Fun Fact: Gas giants and dwarf planets and solar eclipses and stars and supernovas and comets and asteroids and the moon and the sun and**

**The planets (including dwarfs), in order from the sun:**  
**I. Mercury**

**II. Venus**

**III. Earth**

**IV. Mars**

**(IV-2. Ceres)**

**V. Jupiter**

**VI. Saturn**

**VII. Uranus**

**VIII. Neptune**

**(IX. Pluto)**

**(X. Haumea)**

**(XI. Makemake)**

**(XII. Eris.)**

“Craig, I don’t know,” Tweek says. “I don’t know if Stan’s going to be okay.”

Craig nods. He understands. He wishes he didn’t, but he does.

**Tweek [redundantly, comfortably, repeated]:  
I. rubs circles into Craig's back**

**II. smooths Craig's hair back, and**

**III. holds him together.**

Tweek is like glue, and Craig is like a 3D puzzle of a city, and it’s a stupid metaphor and he doesn't really understand it but it feels real. He feels broken into pieces and lost and afraid. He doesn’t like being ruled by emotion, however temporary.

**It is:  
I. juvenile**

**II. useless**

**III. irritating**

**IV. all-encompassing, and**

**V. incorrect.**

“It’s not your fault,” Tweek says. “You know that, right?”

**~~Fun~~ Fact: That’s a lie.**

“You couldn’t have done anything, Craig, you didn’t know he would do this.”

“But I did,” Craig says. His voice is barely above a whisper. He looks up. Tweek looks confused.

“What do you mean?”

“He said he wanted to die,” Craig says. “He said he wanted to die, and I let him go.”

Craig turns to look at his hands. They rest uselessly in his lap.

“I let him walk away, Tweek, I let him walk away.”

Tweek keeps stroking his back.

“I knew he was planning something.” Craig rubs his eyes. “I knew he was planning something, but I didn’t say anything, why didn’t I say anything? Why didn’t I tell anyone?”

_Why didn’t I tell anyone?_

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It's all Craig's fault.**

Tweek stays for a while. He wants to spend the night to make sure Craig is okay, but Craig’s mom won’t let him. They don’t talk to her about what happened with Stan. Craig doesn’t have the words, and Tweek is intimidated by her.

Tweek kisses Craig goodbye, and Craig assures Tweek he’ll be alright. Craig decides to go to bed.

**~~Fun~~ Fact: For the first time in a very long time, Craig has a nightmare.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> additional update
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome


	53. Act VIII Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For what?

Craig spends first period waiting next to Stan’s locker. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Maybe a better term would be _watching_. Craig spends first period _watching_ Stan’s locker. S4364.

Craig doesn’t know how he feels. The locker is green. The locker looks like every other locker in the area. Nothing sticks out. It is a normal locker. Except it isn’t. It isn’t a normal locker, because S4364 belongs to Stan, and it always has. Ever since freshman year, S4364 has only been opened by Stan (and the principal that one time when Stan was still riding a constant marijuana high).

“What are you doing?”

Craig looks up. One of the condescending hall monitors is staring him down a few lockers to his left. Ridiculously, Craig expects it to be Cartman, but it isn’t. It’s some teacher he’s never spoken to before. Or just some random staff member.

“Why aren’t you in class?” she asks. She is glaring. She is angry. Craig wants to flip her off. He comes very close to giving her the bird. Very close. But he manages to stave off the urge. Instead, Craig turns his attention back to Stan’s locker. She doesn’t like that. “I’m talking to you.”

Craig points to S4364 and says, “He killed himself.”

The hall monitor doesn’t know what to say to that at all. She’s not trained in teenage angst or psychology. Craig likes it. Craig feels like he has power over the situation.

“Could you let me mourn in peace?” he asks. The hall monitor says something, but Craig doesn’t hear her. He’s busy with his brain. The hall monitor walks away.

Craig doesn’t feel like he’s mourning. Craig doesn’t feel like he’s anything. Craig is just watching. And waiting.

For what?

Some kids start laughing in a classroom down the hall. He doesn’t know what class they’re in. He doesn’t know the room number. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.

S4364 stares at him. The vents are dark at the top. They’re black and full of nothing, but there might be something in there. He wonders what Stan kept in there, if anything. He usually didn’t use his locker. Craig wonders why. Craig wonders if it’s because he started hoarding again, or something. Craig wonders a lot of things.

Craig doesn’t have to wonder about all of those things for too long, though.

**Fun Fact: Craig knows how to open a locker without the combination.**

Craig glances around the hallway. No one is near. He’s alone. Craig pulls his hands out of his pockets. He approaches S4364. He takes the lock into his hand, hooks his index finger beneath the shackle, and begins to orient himself with the dial. In a matter of seconds, he discovers that the first number of the combination is five. He’s midway through finding the second number when he hears someone coming down the hallway.

Craig doesn’t have to look away from the lock to know he’s been caught, but he doesn’t care. He sees the distinct appearance of Mr. Mackey out of the corner of his gaze, _but he doesn’t care_. He keeps spinning the lock, keeping mental note of the numbers in his head.

 **The Numbers:**  
**I. 5**

**II. 15**

**III. 25**

It’s twenty-six.

Craig resets the lock and inputs the code. It opens easily. He steps back and swings the door out. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting to see. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting at all. _He doesn’t_. He just knows that he’s extremely disappointed with what he finds.

 **The things inside of Stan’s locker:**  
**I. a**

**II. whole lot**

**III. of nothing.**

Craig slams the locker shut. It echoes, painfully loud, through the hallway. All the while, Mr. Mackey says nothing. He simply watches through those stupid glasses of his. Craig almost expects him to conjure a desk out of nowhere, just so he can sit and lace his fingers together and twiddle his thumbs like a fucking moron. Finally, Craig looks over. He hates looking at Mr. Mackey, but he hates looking at S4364 even more. He inhales.

“What do you want?” Craig asks. Mr. Mackey is frowning, this shallow, stupidly therapist-like frown. It’s that forced-sympathetic expression that all psychologist-like people adopt when they’re trying to be helpful. It’s not helpful, though. All it does is make Craig feel even more angry. He bites back the urge to ask him who the _fuck_ he’s _looking_ at. He shoves his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t give in to the temptation of flipping Mr. Mackey off.

“One of the teachers let me know you were feeling kind of down, m’kay,” says Mr. Mackey. “She told me you were mourning, Craig, is that true?”

“What’s it look like to you?” Craig asks. He doesn’t know what he means by that, and he doesn’t know how Mr. Mackey is supposed to respond. He’s just trying not to answer it. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He doesn’t want to talk to Mr. Mackey, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to lie. He hates lying. He hates liars. It feels like there are spiders crawling on his skin. It feels like he’s covered in bugs. He knows he isn’t, but he still feels that way. Craig takes his hands out of his pockets and starts to rub his arms to rid himself of the sensation.

“To me, m’kay, it looks like you’re going through a difficult time,” Mr. Mackey says. He takes a step forward. To compensate, Craig takes five steps back. Mr. Mackey gets the message. “This isn’t a very private place to have a conversation, m’kay, would you like to talk about this in my office?”

“I don’t want to talk,” Craig says.

“Are you sure, Craig? Talking about things isn’t a bad idea, m’kay, it can really—”

“I said _I don’t want to talk_.”

Mr. Mackey frowns again and says, “M’kay.”

Craig keeps rubbing at his arms. It helps him feel secure. It helps ground him. He looks like a moron, but it helps. It helps it helps it helps. Craig looks at S4364.

**Craig thinks:  
I. about the alcove**

**II. about the fight, and**

**III. about Stan.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It’s all Craig’s fault.**

“Would you like to sit somewhere quiet for a bit, Craig?” Mr. Mackey asks. It’s quiet where they are, but Craig knows what Mr. Mackey means by _quiet_. He means somewhere dim and soothing so Craig can deal with his internal bullshit without trying to process the external bullshit.

“Yes,” Craig says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome


	54. Act VIII Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes.

**Some facts about W-157:**  
**I. it is the only French classroom**

**II. only one person teaches in it, and**

**III. there is a large window immediately behind where Tweek sits.**

“Craig?”

 **Facts about the window:**  
**I. it is four feet wide**

**II. split horizontally in the middle by a metal continuation of the sill, and**

**III. is framed by pictures of France and other such images of _le monde francophone._**

“Craig?”

 **Facts about the weather:**  
**I. it is exceedingly cold, yet**

**II. the ice is slowly melting**

**III. some grass has died, and**

**IV. it is visible through the thin layer of snow.**

“Scott, could you tap him for me?”

 **How Craig could have saved Stan:**  
**I. Craig could have denied to sell him anything**

**II. Craig could have visited him when he received that text, and**

**III. Craig could have told someone about Stan’s decline**

**(IV. because Craig noticed. Craig noticed, but he didn’t do anything.)**

Craig flinches when someone taps him on the shoulder. Scott winces out of surprise, and lets out a soft, “Oh, jeez.”

Craig glances around the room. Everyone is silently working on whatever homework Madame had assigned. He doesn’t know what it is, because he hasn’t been paying attention. He attempts to lose himself out the window, again, but is stopped by Tweek. Not physically. Tweek doesn’t touch him. Tweek just looks at him.

“Craig, are you okay?” Tweek asks. Tweek has his sleeves rolled up. He doesn’t usually roll his sleeves up, especially in the wintertime. Tweek only rolls up his sleeves when he doesn’t want to deal with the irritation of them falling over his hands.

**Fun Fact: Tweek is wearing a shirt that is slightly too big for him.**

Craig looks away from Tweek. He examines the window. He examines the snow. He rests his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his palm. Craig is tired. Craig didn’t sleep well last night. Sitting in that “quiet room” (which was really just an empty conference room) with Mr. Mackey had only exhausted him more thoroughly. The light reflects off the snow and makes his eyes heavy.

“Craig, answer me,” Tweek says. Craig looks at Tweek. “Are you okay?”

Craig nods. Craig goes back to looking out the window. It feels like no time passes, but he knows that’s illogical. Time passes. Minutes pass. He doesn’t touch the worksheet that was handed out to everyone. He doesn’t touch the textbook. He doesn’t touch his pencil.

Tweek waves his hand in front of Craig’s face. Craig looks at him. “Why aren’t you talking?” Tweek asks.

Craig would open his mouth to reply, but it would be useless, so he doesn’t. Instead, he just shrugs. He can’t explain it verbally. He doesn’t know how. His voice stopped working after talking to Mr. Mackey. Distantly, Craig wonders why, but he isn’t all that concerned. He doesn’t have much to say, anyway.

**~~Fun~~ Fact: Not talking killed Stan, isn’t that right?**

Craig wants to do some things.

 **Craig wants to:**  
**I. stand**

**II. leave**

**III. go home, and**

**IV. sleep.**

Craig does none of them.

“Please say something,” Tweek says. Craig feels bad. He wants to speak, but he can’t. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to explain it. He doesn’t. But Tweek’s concern is morphing into anxiety. Tweek is bouncing his leg so hard, he’s shaking the table. Craig coordinates himself. He adjusts.

 **Craig:**  
**I. pulls out his notebook**

**II. pulls out his pencil, and**

**III. writes Tweek a note.**

_**voice is not working. im ok. Love u. <3** _

Craig pulls the paper out of his notebook and slides it over to Tweek.

 **Tweek:**  
**I. takes it**

**II. reads it, and**

**III. writes something down before passing it back.**

_**Okay. I love you too. :) write if you need anything** _

Craig smiles at Tweek, and Tweek smiles back, and that’s all that’s needed. Tweek returns to his worksheet. Craig returns to the window. Craig revisits the facts.

**Craig revisits the facts about:  
I. the room**

**II. the window**

**III. the weather, and**

**IV. Stan.**

Craig closes his eyes. The sunlight bothers his head too much.

There’s a fact, or a truth, or something, somewhere.

 **The fact/truth/or something (somewhere):**  
**I. Craig needs a break, but**

**II. he doesn’t know what a break for him entails.**

Craig decides a break for him entails reading his book.

Craig pulls out his book. He barely starts reading before Madame tells him to put it away. It agitates Craig, but he acquiesces nonetheless. He puts it back into his bag and decides to suck it up and do the assignment.

 **Everything is:**  
**I. long**

**II. boring, and**

**III. monotonous**

Craig likes it. He likes the dragging feeling. He tells himself that repetitively until it becomes as natural as possible. He usually loves the boring and monotonous. He loves it when things are normal and casual and basic and predictable. He loves puzzles because they’re fun, but they don’t come to life and implement themselves into real life consequences. That doesn’t happen.

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It happened with Stan, though, didn’t it?**

_My fault._

Craig sets the pencil down. He wants the bell to ring. The sooner it rings, the less Craig has to deal with. He can ignore the world and everything in it. He can go to bed.

For some reason the long and boring and monotonous stuff feels too long, too boring, and too monotonous. He can’t keep track of his head. He feels stuck inside of himself. He feels weird. He feels almost like he’s regressing, which doesn’t make sense, because as far as he knows, he hasn’t made progress in anything in order to regress. He just feels less capable.

“Craig, what’s wrong?” Tweek asks him.

Craig looks up. Tweek is looking at him again, the concern more evident on his face. Tweek is frowning. Craig feels compelled to look away, but doesn’t. Craig shrugs.

**Fun Fact: Without realizing it, Craig had started to cry.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	55. Act VIII Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s afraid to look.

When lunchtime comes, the only thing Craig wants to do is bury himself in the library. The library has an entire section for space. It’s his place. It’s his solace. But Tweek isn’t comfortable with Craig being alone, so he drags him along to the cafeteria. Tweek insists Craig needs to eat, and since they can’t eat in the library, they sit in the lunchroom at the same table as Token and Clyde.

“Wuh! It’s Craig!” Clyde exclaims as Craig slides into the chair across from him. Token rolls his eyes, but doesn’t tell Clyde to stop being an idiot.

“Hey, Craig,” says Token. “Decide the library wasn’t suitable today?”

Craig only shrugs. He still hasn’t gotten his voice to work. Tweek is concerned, but Craig knows it’ll come back eventually. He just needs to rest it for a while. He picks at a flaking piece of the plastic table.

“Why isn’t he saying anything?” Token asks. “Actually, let me rephrase that, why didn’t he flip us off?”

Is that what they want him to do? Because Craig can flip them off if they want him to. In fact, Craig does. Craig flips them off. They don’t respond to it. Tweek just gives Craig this… expression. Tweek starts to answer for Craig.

“He—” Craig grabs Tweek’s arm to tell him to stop. Tweek respectfully reroutes to instead say, “He’s just a little tired… he’s fine, though, so don’t worry about it.”

Craig lets go of Tweek’s arm, grateful for the adjustment. Craig ignores the look Clyde is giving him. Craig ignores Token’s glances. Craig ignores Tweek’s attempts to change the subject. Craig pulls his phone out of his bag and powers it on. His mother had given it back this morning. It has lost some battery from the shut-down, but is still passably charged. Maybe he can—

9 missed texts.

He doesn’t know yet who they’re from. He’s afraid to look. They’re dated Monday night. The night Stan…

Reluctantly, Craig opens up the messages. They’re all from Kenny.

McCORMICK  
  
**Monday** 17:08  
hey craig can u check on stan please? He sent me some worrying texts and I want to make sure he is ok LOL  
  
haha I know you probably don’t like stan but I aint kidding round here  
  
r u going?  
  
are you getting these?  
  
craig seriously I am fckn freaked out here man I called the cops I’m on the phone with them but they won’t be able to get there as fast as you can  
  
please please craig  
  
you live closer and you have a car im running as fast as I can but im still almost a mile away  
  
the ambulance is still minutes out please craig please  
  


There’s a break. The time adjusts. The last text was sent almost an hour later.

McCORMICK  
  
**Monday** 17:57  
hey, come find me sometime, ok? We should talk.  
  


Craig finishes reading the texts, and immediately reads them over again. And again. And again. It’s a nasty cycle, a horrendous loop that replays in his brain. His breath has caught in his throat. It’s not hard for him to breathe, but his lungs ache. His stomach hurts. He feels ill. Craig doesn’t want to busy himself with mindless apps anymore. He doesn’t want to attempt to fake his way through the day. He doesn’t.

Craig turns off his phone and pockets it. The sounds of the cafeteria are deafening, and the lights that skid in from the windows hurt his eyes. He needs out.

Craig stands up and walks as fast as he can across the cafeteria, towards the bathroom. Someone tries to call him back to the table, but he doesn’t listen. He pushes the door open and ignores the people at the sink. It’s all he can do to keep his composure until he locks himself into one of the stalls. He keeps his palms on the cold metal of the stall door, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against it.

Someone leaves the bathroom. Craig can hear the murmur of chatter grow loud as the door opens, and then it silences once more after the sound of it thudding closed. He doesn’t know if he’s alone in here. He didn’t bother to count the number of people. He didn’t bother. He couldn’t. There’s too much going on. Too much.

**Too much:**  
**I. money issues, and**

**II. the thing that happened to Tweek, and**

**III. Stan, and**

**IV. stop, and**

**V. stop stop stop, and**

**VI. _stopstopstopstopstopstop_ , and**

He can’t.

He can’t.

_He can’t._

_Breathe_.

Craig claps a hand over his mouth and nose to stifle the noise of him gasping for air. He waits.

**Craig:**  
**I. waits**

**II. waits**

**III. waits**

**Craig waits:**  
**I. for someone to enter**

**II. for someone to notice, or**

**III. for someone to leave.**

**Craig remembers:**  
**I. the conversation with Stan on Monday during lunch, where**

**II. Craig had almost taken Stan to this very bathroom to talk, and**

**III. had decided against it because it seemed stupid.**

**(IV. now Stan is on life support.)**

**Craig feels:**  
**I. like he might faint**

**II. like he might vomit, and**

**III. like he might scream.**

**Fun Fact: Craig does none of those things.**

**Fun Fact: Only five percent of Abell 2744's mass is actually made up of galaxies.**

**Fun Fact: The Hand of God belongs to the constellation Circinus.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: Stan is going to die.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It’s all Craig’s fault.**

**How Craig could have saved Stan, pt. 2:**  
**I. Craig could have kept his phone on like he usually does, and**

**II. that way, Craig would have gotten Kenny’s texts, and**

**III. Craig could have driven over and done something.**

**(IV. Craig could have told someone, could have refused to sell, could have confronted him more insistently.)**

Craig’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He waits for a while before pulling it out and checking the notification. He’s afraid it might be Kenny, but it isn’t.

LOVE  
  
**Today** 12:04  
Honey, where did you government?  
  
government  
  
government  
  
DAMMIT  
  
GO WHERE DID UOU GO  
  
Shit caps lock. I'm so sorry. I’m not mad. I'm sorry. Are you okay, Craig?  
  


Craig breathes, slow, in and out, for a count of four beats.

LOVE  
  
**Today** 12:06  
just needed a break is all it is loud out there i am fine, babe  
  
Can I help at all?  
  
no i will be ok do not worry, honey  
  
Do you want me to sit with you?  
  
no i kind of just want some time alone, love  
  
Are you sure?  
  
yes i will be back in a few minutes, sweetie  
  
If you say so. I love you. <3  
  
i love you too, dear  
  
<3  
  


Craig tucks his phone against his chest. It’s still on, letting off that bright glow from the screen.

**He:**  
**I. tries not to panic**

**(I-2. can’t help it)**

**(I-3. can’t stop it, and)**

**II. stays put until the bell rings.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	56. Act VIII Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Church and State.

**The Auditorium:**  
**I. is rather large**

**II. has a plain stage**

**III. has a curtain, and**

**IV. can fit up to 300 people**

**(V. which is more than enough in a small town.)**

**The Curtain:**  
**I. is heavy**

**II. is red**

**III. is actually rather soft, and**

**IV. has almost four feet of empty space behind it.**

**Fun Fact: Craig is good at sneaking away.**

As per usual, Craig makes it to theater class earlier than the rest of the students. That makes sneaking behind that large curtain all the easier. He takes advantage of this. Craig stalks onto the stage with at least five minutes to spare, listening to his footsteps. They are quiet, because he’s trying to step lightly. He takes caution not to make unnecessary noise. Craig slips behind the curtain and sits down on the floor, tugging his bag into his lap. The pressure is nice. He is tempted to lay down and set the bag on his chest, but he doesn’t. Instead, Craig pulls the bag up and hugs it to his torso, burying his face into the fabric.

 **The bag feels:**  
**I. rough**

**II. textured, and**

**III. safe.**

**The bag smells like:**  
**I. Sharpies**

**II. weed, and**

**III. apples.**

**Fun Fact: Stan used apple hair product on Monday. After brushing through Stan’s hair, Craig’s hand had smelled like apples for a while. It was a light smell, though, so he pretended it didn’t exist.**

Someone enters the auditorium. Craig doesn’t know who it is, nor does he really care. He squeezes himself even tighter behind the curtain, trying to make himself as small as possible.

 **It is:**  
**I. juvenile**

**II. childish**

**III. ridiculous, and**

**IV. stupid.**

It is all of those things, and many more, but Craig can’t help it. It feels like this is the only way for him to be alone. Even though he knows people will come around and there will be a class in here in a matter of minutes, Craig feels like this is his only chance at having some time to himself, where he doesn’t have to contemplate how other people are going to feel about him and his attitude. Here, behind this curtain, he doesn’t have to put on this facade of being aloof, like everyone expects him to. It is Church and State. Craig is Church, Craig is State, and everyone else is the separation between which Craig shows and which Craig doesn’t. It’s a stupid metaphor, but it feels real. It makes sense.

**Fun Fact: Craig likes it when things make sense.**

More people enter the auditorium. People chatter. Craig listens, silent behind the curtain.

 **The conversations:**  
**I. Brad and his friends chat about softball**

**II. Tricia gossips with one of her friends, and**

**III. Tweek is asking Butters if he’s seen Craig.**

Craig squishes even deeper behind the curtain. There is no one he trusts more than Tweek, but at the same time, he feels like he can’t face him. Craig is afraid. Craig doesn’t know what he is afraid of, but he is afraid, and he can’t help it. Craig hides like a child. Stubborn and immature and angsty. This is the type of thing people roll their eyes at. That’s what Craig is afraid of.

 **Craig is afraid of:**  
**I. people thinking he’s weak**

**II. people thinking he’s stupid, and**

**III. people thinking he’s different.**

**(IV. people.)**

**Craig:**  
**I. always thought strength was the best thing to have, so**

**II. he tried to be as strong as he could, which**

**III. made him seem like an asshole, and**

**IV. now he has a reputation**

**(V. _“I just heard my boyfriend got beat up by an apathetic drug-dealer.”_ )**

**Fun Fact: Craig just wants to fit in.**

**Fun Fact: Craig cares what people think.**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: That may have killed Stan Marsh.**

The bell for the start of class rings. Mr. Douchebag begins to give a lecture to the circle of theater students, describing the importance of auditions and _putting yourself out there_. Mr. Douchebag talks about how monologues are an important part of the audition process, and he segues that into their next assessment: a monologue.

Craig scoots, slow, until he can peek out between the break in the curtain. He sees the group, and he sees the people.

 **The people, as seen by Craig:**  
**I. Brad’s hair**

**II. Tricia’s shoulder**

**III. Tweek’s shirt, and**

**IV. Butters’ eyes.**

**Fun Fact: Butters can see him. Butters is looking right at him.**

Craig makes eye contact with Butters.

Craig moves back behind the curtain. He pulls the bag back up to his chest and hugs it.

Ten minutes later, Butters slips behind the curtain and sits next to Craig. For a long while, Butters doesn’t say a word. He just _sits_ there.

 **Butters:**  
**I. sits cross-legged**

**II. bumps his knuckles together, and**

**III. stares at the floor.**

“I heard you crying in the bathroom,” Butters says quietly. The rest of the theater students are giggling and laughing in groups around the auditorium as they search for a monologue or try to write their own. Some students work in pairs. Others work alone. Craig can tell by the locations of the noises. Butters moves on at Craig’s silence and asks, “Why are you back here?”

 **The noises:**  
**I. [Revisited] groups giggling**

**II. pairs whispering, and**

**III. sole people scribbling.**

Craig shrugs. His voice is still absent. He hugs the bag tighter. Something plastic inside of it crinkles.

“Did you hear about Stan?” asks Butters. Again, Craig shrugs. Butters is smart enough to know that means _yes_. Butters drops his hands into his lap. “Poor fella, he was really strugglin’ there, huh? I just don’t know why he’d do such a thing.”

Craig shrugs. Neither he nor Butters know what this shrug means. They don’t talk about it. Butters, strangely, hums.

“‘I knew a simple soldier boy, who grinned at life in empty joy’…” Butters trails to a mumble with more of the poem.

_Footnote: [Revisited] Butters Stotch feels connected to poetry._

Craig follows along. He knows this one. Tweek has recited it before. Butters falls silent before the end of the second stanza. Butters doesn’t finish it. Craig finishes it for him. “‘He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again.’”

Craig’s voice is raw from the day of disuse. His stomach churns at his own recitation. It feels disrespectful, in many ways.

Craig now understands why Butters didn’t finish the poem.

“I’m feelin’ real guilty,” Butters says. Craig glances up. Butters is looking elsewhere. “I wish I’d’a said something, Stan said some worrying stuff that day, and I was too afraid to say anything. I was scared he’d hate me, and I was scared I’d just make it worse, so I didn’t do anything.”

Butters is frowning, now.

“I could have stopped him,” says Butters. “I could have stopped him from— oh, you know.”

Craig knows. Craig knows well.

“Did you give him the drugs?” Butters asks. Craig shrugs. Butters sighs. “You know that it isn’t your fault, right?”

Another shrug.

“I… I think that there isn’t really a use in dwelling on the past,” Butters says. Craig counts the imperfections in the wood of the stage floor.

**I. One**

**II. Two**

**III. Three**

Butters continues, “I think that’s the big important thing about life, y’know… that— that things happen, real bad things, sometimes— but things happen, and we can either let it drag us down, or find the meaning and use it to make ourselves better, and…”

Butters trails off. For a minute or so, he leaves it hanging.

**IX. Nine**

**X. Ten**

**XII. Eleven**

“This might sound cruel, I know, but— but Stan’s… this whole thing, really helped me realize something, about how important life is.” Butters is back to knocking his fists together.

**XXXI. Thirty-one**

**XXXII. Thirty-two**

Butters hums again, a sad little noise. “I miss him a whole lot. He was a real asshole sometimes, but he was a part of everything here, and I don’t know… I don’t know how everything is going to turn out, without him around to be an asshole with Eric and Kyle and Kenny.”

Butters’ voice is starting to get thick with mucous. He’s trying not to cry. Craig lets go of the bag, just a little.

**XLIII. Forty-three**

“Everything feels real upside-down, and nothing really makes sense,” says Butters. “I want him to be okay, I really do. I learned the lesson, and now I just want him back.”

Instead of shrugging, Craig nods. Butters pats Craig on the back.

“There there, buddy, it’s okay,” Butters says, but he’s the one who sounds like he needs to be reassured. Then, it’s quiet.

“Can I be honest for a second?” Craig eventually asks. Butters blinks, but nods.

“Why, of course, Craig, what’s on your mind?”

**LXIV. Sixty-four**

**~~Fun~~ Fact: It’s all Craig’s fault.**

Craig takes a deep breath.

“I don’t like smoking,” Craig says. “I only took your cigarettes because I don’t want you to die of lung cancer.”

  
**END ACT EIGHT**  
**“The Brain of Craig Tucker”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poem: “Suicide in the Trenches” by Siegfried Sassoon
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	57. Intermission VIII

**FADE IN:**

**INT. A PEACEFULLY STILL BEDROOM — AFTERNOON**

There is no scene. A teenage boy tries to get his boyfriend to speak. They sit together on Craig’s bed. Both sit across from each other, cross-legged, but Craig is having issues maintaining eye contact and Tweek is trying very hard to understand what’s going on in Craig’s head.

“How are you doing?”

Craig hasn’t verbally said a word to Tweek all day.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Tweek is starting to get concerned.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Really concerned, that is.

Tweek knows this is about Stan. It’s likely about Kyle, too. That outburst yesterday really messed Craig up; it wasn’t a good way to tell someone about the... critical state of an acquaintance. At the same time, though, Tweek wonders if Kyle even knew Craig didn’t know. Tweek hadn’t known. It still doesn’t feel real. Tweek wonders if it ever will.

“I have a text-to-speech app on my phone,” Tweek offers. “Do you want to use that?”

Craig shakes his head.

“Do you want to write to me?”

Craig shrugs, but it’s a _no_ shrug.

“Do you want to text to me?”

Craig shakes his head.

“Do you have something you want to say?”

Craig looks ashamed. He shakes his head.

“That’s okay,” Tweek says. “You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Craig doesn’t do anything for a minute. They just sit together, allowing time to pass without pressure to communicate verbally. It took a while for them to be able to do this. Just sit. They’re both comfortable with silences when it’s with each other, now. They worked at it. They do their best to work at everything, together.

Craig leans forward and presses his face into Tweek’s shoulder. He does that when he wants a hug. Tweek wraps his arms around Craig, squeezing his boyfriend firmly. He wants Craig to feel safe and secure. He wants to help Craig the same way Craig helps him when he’s at his worst.

Tweek combs his fingers through Craig’s hair after taking off the chullo of his. Craig’s hair is dark and textured and slightly wavy. If Craig knew how to care for his hair, it’d probably curl more. It’s dry right now, though; frizzy and static-y. He’d benefit from conditioner.

“Babe,” says Tweek. “Is it okay if I ask you something?”

Craig nods into Tweek’s shoulder.

“You know how we’re doing monologues for theater, right?”

Another nod.

“I was wondering if I could do one about you.”

Craig pulls away just enough to look at Tweek. Craig’s expression is blankly confused.

“I mean…” Jesus, how does Tweek explain this? “Remember when I asked you to do a monologue for me?”

Another nod.

“Well, you said something about feeling alien, and I wanted to… to work with you, to create a monologue. You’re really important to me, Craig, and I want to understand you better, and I think this would be a good way to do that.”

Craig inhales before asking, “Are you going to show people?”

Tweek smiles. Craig’s talking again. That’s good. “Only if you’re comfortable,” Tweek says. “Otherwise, it can just be between us.”

Craig seems to contemplate this. His gaze darts away, and he shifts where he sits. “Okay,” Craig finally says. “Okay, we can do that, but… I'll have to think about the whole… showing people, thing, because I don't want everyone to...”

“Know what goes on in your brain?” Tweek asks. Craig pauses, but quickly nods his affirmative response.

“But I trust you,” Craig tells him. Tweek smiles, and Craig does, too. Is it cliche to say Tweek’s heart feels full? Is it unoriginal, is it ridiculous? If it is, he has a difficult time caring. Tweek pulls Craig closer to hug him once more. Craig struggles momentarily, but the moment is short-lived, and he eventually gives in to the embrace. Craig even returns it. Craig even says, “I love you,” which has always been difficult for him.

Tweek buries his face against the side of Craig’s neck, cradling the back of Craig’s head and holding him so close. Their chests press together. Craig is warm. “I love you, too,” Tweek says. “Jesus, man, I love you so much.”

They separate from each other when the door slowly creeps open. Now sitting a solid foot apart, both Tweek and Craig watch as the person leans into Craig’s bedroom. Tricia peeks in, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. For a second, no one says anything.

Then, with hesitation and apprehension, Tricia whispers, “Hey, can I… can I talk to you guys?”

Craig and Tweek share a glance. Craig nods.

“Yeah, of course,” Tweek says.

Tricia steps in and shuts the door behind her.

  
**BEGIN ACT NINE**  
**“Him”**


	58. Case Study #9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some very important facts about: Tricia Tucker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING  
> for sexual harassment and everything that goes with that

**Case Study #9:**  
**TRICIA TUCKER**

_Some very important facts about: Tricia Tucker_

_Tricia Tucker is a natural strawberry blond, with blue eyes and a routine up-do of pigtails. As she gets older, she wears her hair more commonly in a ponytail, instead. Tricia Tucker never wears her hair down. Tricia Tucker hates the way her hair gets in her face. Tricia Tucker is practical like that._

Tricia shuffles her feet against the carpet (3 times each). She is wary. She is hesitant. She is unsure. She takes a single step. She rubs her arms, hugging them tightly to her chest. If Pandora were here, she would doubtlessly leap into action. But Pandora is not here, and Tricia probably thought of that. It’s likely the reason behind the door being closed.

Tricia exhales. She keeps herself soft. It is unlike her usual manner. Craig takes note of this. He straightens up where he sits. Tweek scoots so his legs are no longer crossed, and they dangle over the side of the bed. Tweek is ready to stand, if necessary, though it doesn’t seem like it will be. Craig doesn’t know where Tweek’s action is coming from.

Craig asks, “Trish?”

Tricia replies, “Just a sec.”

The boys give her time.

Tricia says, “Something happened, and I feel weird about it.”

Craig and Tweek glance at each other. Craig wants to ask what happened. Craig does not want to force it. Craig does not want to accidentally push her away. Craig just stays quiet, listening. He scoots sideways and pats the spot next to him. Tricia walks over and sits down, still on-edge.

Tricia opens her mouth to speak, but her words stumble before she can straighten them out. She sighs, shakily. She laughs. She says, “Sorry, fuck, I’m shaking, why am I shaking?”

_Side Note: Tricia Tucker is almost always fearless to a fault._

Craig says, “It’s okay, take your time.”

Tricia nods. Tricia breathes. Tricia calms. Tricia says, “Someone grabbed me during band practice the other day.”

Craig snaps to attention. He looks straight at Tricia. Tricia hugs herself tighter, rubbing her upper arms and staring down at the floor. Tweek examines her with wide eyes, lips parted and mouth open (1.5 cm) in shock.

Tricia says, “We were warming up and he just… like, I don’t know, at first it wasn’t bad, he just got really close to me, but then he got _too_ close, and he just… wrapped his arm around me.”

Craig’s heart is pounding in his chest. He can hear it in his ears.

Tricia says, “I was afraid of making him mad, so I didn’t do anything.” Her voice has lilted into shame. She tucks her chin down. “He grabbed— um, like, he grabbed my butt, and… I don’t know, it just made me really uncomfortable, but… I don’t know. I might just be overreacting—”

Tweek interrupts, “You’re not overreacting.”

Tricia looks up. She is frowning.

Tweek says, “No one should grab you like that. Ever. It’s not okay, and it’s perfectly fine to feel the way you do, okay? It’s normal to feel upset.”

Tricia bites her lip. She says, “I don’t know, I just— I don’t… I feel like I should have done something, rather than just standing there, like I was—”

Tweek says, “Frozen.”

Tricia says, “Yeah, frozen.”

Tweek says, “It’s normal to freeze up in those situations.”

Craig’s brain is working overtime. First Tweek. After the spring play. Now this? What the fuck? Isn’t this a little too much? This type of thing doesn’t happen _this much_ , does it? Craig cards his fingers through his hair.

_Relationship: Tricia Tucker is my little sister._

Tweek says, “He shouldn’t have grabbed you like that, and if he took your silence for consent, he’s a fucking douchebag with no moral code.”

Tweek is angry, and justifiably so. Craig shuts his eyes. Craig thinks.

Tweek asks, “He didn’t do anything else, did he?”

Tricia says, “No, he just grabbed me, that’s all.”

Tweek appears relieved. Tweek inhales deeply, then exhales. Tweek says, “I’m glad.”

Craig finally catches up. The heartbeat in his chest resurfaces, hitting his ribs uncomfortably. His jaw clenches. He says, “Who.”

Tricia looks over. Tricia asks, “What?”

Craig repeats, “ _Who_?”

Tweek’s expression twitches. Craig doesn’t process it.

Craig asks, “Who did that to you?”

Tricia glances away. She’s shaking again.

When she finally mutters the name, Tweek makes a whining noise like he’s just been told something utterly sickening. His eyes have gone wide, again, and Tricia gives him a concerned look. Craig’s blood boils. Tweek tugs at his shirt. Tweek excuses himself. Tweek leaves Craig’s bedroom to take a breather.

No.

No fucking way.

No no no.

Craig leaps up and blurts, “I’m going to fucking kill the bastard.”

Tricia’s eyes widen. She stands. She grabs Craig’s shirt. She says, “Craig, no, don’t, it’s not that big of a deal—”

Craig pulls away. Craig says, “It’s a big fucking deal, he can’t get away with this bullshit, I’ll kill him, _I’ll kill him_.”

Tricia says, “Please don’t, I don’t want you to go to jail.”

Craig is only half-listening. He’s caught up in his head, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep himself from scowling. Craig trails his fingers through his hair, gripping. The sick fuck. _The sick fuck hurt Tweek and touched his sister._

_The sick fuck is going to pay._

Craig will make _Him_ pay.

_Footnote: Tricia Tucker has a temper. It runs in the family._


	59. Act IX Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without thinking, Craig rubs at his throat.

**Some Facts:**  
**I. it is Friday**

**II. Stan’s attempt was four days ago, and**

**III. the windshield wiper on Craig’s car is broken.**

In the middle of the drive to school, it just stopped working. Craig had tried to figure out what it could be, but it was impossible to do without getting a more in-depth, closer look at the stupid thing. There are possibilities floating in his head, trying to pinpoint and figure out what went wrong. Had it been acting up prior? Of course not, he’d have noticed. He’s good at details. If something changes, he can place it quickly.

It’s snowing. The flakes are large, landing thickly against everything in its way. Craig tugs his hat more firmly on his head before exiting the car. He moves quickly to shut the door. He doesn’t want to get anything inside wet. There’s nothing of particular value that could break from water, but it’d be nice not to have little damp spots on the seat.

Craig shoves the keys into his bag. He trudges his way through the snow as he makes his way out of the parking lot. The district is expecting a snow day soon. They don’t know when the snow day will be, but they say it will likely be next week. Craig passes a group of students as he steps onto the official entrance of what is widely considered “school property”. The parking lot is school property, too, but the other students don’t think about it that way, so neither does Craig.

The group of students he passes chats about how school might be let out early. Craig knows that’s not true. Once a school day starts, it starts. South Park has weird weather, and the people here are used to the extremes. Snow days are rare. Early releases are even rarer. Craig likes the rarity of schedule adjustments.

Messes of students flock towards the doorway. For a second, things seem stopped. Craig tries to ignore it. He pushes through the flocks of students that are crowding in the school’s front yard. He’s just trying to get inside for class. It doesn’t happen that way. It is not straightforward. Things rarely are, nowadays.

Someone shoves him. Craig stumbles. He doesn’t know if it was an accident or not, but either way, he shoots the offender a stare and flips them off. When Craig looks up, he doesn’t expect what he sees.

He’s somehow made his way to the center of the gathering, where people have cleared and are just watching something happen in the middle of the ring of students. Something happens. Something is happening in the center.

 **The thing that is happening:**  
**I. Eric is stuck on the ground**

**II. Kyle is on top of him, and**

**III. Kyle is beating Eric about the head and shoulders.**

**Eric:**  
**I. has his hat off**

**II. has his arms raised to protect his face, and**

**III. keeps mumbling something under his breath**

**(IV. the mutterings are inaudible.)**

**Kyle:**  
**I. doesn’t care**

**II. doesn’t care, and**

**III. doesn’t care.**

“ _Say it again!_ ” Kyle is saying, his tone reaching that same pitch that it had adopted on Wednesday, at Craig’s place. Without thinking, Craig rubs at his throat. Kyle lands another hit on Eric, casting the heels of his palms as hard as he can against Eric’s chest. Students from the circle surrounding them chant for a fight that they’re already getting. “ _I dare you! I dare you, say it again!_ ”

Eric says something in such a way that only the tone of it can be heard. The words themselves melt into inaudibility. Kyle hears it, though. His expression snaps tense, his face red from the effort and the cold. He lands another punch, this time against Eric’s cheek.

“ _You disgusting fuck!_ ” Kyle shrieks. His shoulders shake. His fists slow in their rapid, haphazard hits. He gasps a whine that shivers into a sob. Kyle curls his fingers into Eric’s shirt. Kyle inhales sharply. “ _I hate you! Why couldn’t you have tried instead? Why couldn’t YOU HAVE TRIED TO KILL YOURSELF, YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT!_ ”

Another smack, but it lacks strength. Kyle is panting. His breath fogs before his mouth, masking his face with every huff. Tears have frozen and dried on his face. Snow gathers in sticky clumps on the top of his hat and on his shoulders. Eric’s jacket has soaked through in the back. Kyle makes a whimpering noise. Clouds roll over the sun. Students still shout for a fight.

In a matter of seconds, it changes. Kyle’s exhausted respite is short-lived. Eric gathers himself, bleeding and scraped and bruised, and shoves Kyle over. Kyle topples into the snow, landing with a grunt. Eric wastes no time. He clambers over Kyle, pinning him much like Kyle had just seconds ago.

Contrary to what Craig expects, Kyle doesn’t fight back. Kyle doesn’t try to protect himself. Kyle doesn’t squirm, or shout, or argue.

Kyle goes limp, a rag doll in the snow, as Eric hovers over him. Eric makes no moves to hit Kyle. Instead, Eric speaks.

“Because I’m not a pussy, Kyle!” Eric says. The excitatory shrieks for the fight die down. The students look around, aghast and newly silent. Kyle and Eric haven’t been paying attention to everyone else, though. It’s like they’re the only ones that exist. “I’m not a pussy, tree-hugging vagina, okay! I’m not a hippy, like Stan was, and I’m not selfish, either! I know better than to kill myself, _Kyle_ , because I know how it’ll fuck up all of my friends!”

Kyle doesn’t react. His expression is dead. His eyes are open; they gaze off somewhere in the distance. His eyes don’t look like they’re taking in anything, though. Kyle looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

**Fun Fact: Craig has seen that look before.**

“See, Kyle? See? You can’t even reply! Look at how fucked up you are!” Eric shouts. He’s beaming. He’s proud of himself. Like he’s succeeded. Like he’s won. “You’re so fucked up, you can’t talk! Marsh got your tongue, Kyle? How’d it feel to shove it into his mouth, huh? How’d it feel to fuck him when you were at your worst? Huh, Kyle? _Huh?_ ”

 **Something else:**  
**I. when Craig and Stan got into that fight, it was**

**II. Kyle who broke the two of them up, by**

**III. pulling Stan off of Craig, before**

**IV. Stan could throw any more hits.**

Craig walks forward, encroaching quickly on Eric and Kyle. In a matter of seconds, Craig is close enough for his plan. Eric doesn’t notice him.

 **Events:**  
**I. Craig kicks Eric in the side**

**II. Eric wheezes and rolls off of Kyle, and**

**III. Kyle remains, virtually catatonic, in the snow.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	60. Act IX Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The halls are still empty.

The school official who comes to assess the situation makes the executive decision that Craig had been involved. In a way, she’s not wrong. But she also isn’t right. Craig doesn’t correct her, though. He simply doesn’t care enough to do so.

Even though he doesn’t _want_ to be the one to escort Eric Cartman to the nurse’s office, he will do it. He doesn’t want to be expelled. The more he can do to keep his place in this stupid school, the better.

 **As it is, his:**  
**I. mother is mad enough**

**II. father is stressed enough, and**

**III. sister really doesn’t need a delinquent brother right now.**

**(IV. boyfriend would be worried.)**

The walk through the hallways of the school begins. It is silent. Craig has his hands shoved into his pockets, and he stares straight ahead. He keeps Eric in the edge of his vision, just to make sure he doesn’t try to make a run for it, for some reason. He doesn’t know why Eric would do that, he wasn’t incriminated in this situation for once, but Eric is unpredictable and has never been anything other than trouble.

Halfway through the walk, with the hallways emptied of anyone other than them, Craig calmly asks, “What did you do to Kyle?”

Eric glances over, but Craig can tell by his expression he is ultimately not bothered. There is no stress in his posture; he is confident, really. “I didn’t do anything to the stupid Jew, he just pounced on me, without a reason! God, why does everyone always think _I’m_ the one that starts things?”

“Because you are,” Craig says. Eric doesn’t have anything to say to that. Craig huffs a breath. The walk continues. They turn a corner. The wall of lockers to their left becomes a normal wall. Craig glances around. The halls are still empty.

Craig, laser-focused on Eric, grabs Eric’s left shoulder, spins him around, and then shoves him as hard as he can against the wall. The back of Eric’s head hits it with a thunk. Craig couldn’t give less of a shit. Craig grabs Eric’s collar and pins him there. Eric appears a little dazed, but otherwise recovers quickly. He looks directly into Craig’s eyes. Craig has no urge to look away. Craig stares Eric down. Eric says, “I’ll scream.”

“No, you won’t,” Craig says.

“Yes I will, Craig, I’ll scream,” Eric insists. “I’ll do it right now, and then they’ll drag your sorry ass down to the principal. Maybe they’ll arrest you, huh, Craig? Would you like that? Would you like to go to jail?”

“Would  _you_  like to go to jail?” Craig asks. Eric looks amused. Craig continues, “Because I know what you did, fuckass, I know _exactly_ what you did, and you can’t run from it forever. You think it’s just going to blow over? You think fucking over Tweek’s life is inconsequential? You think it’s okay to grope my sister?”

Craig’s tone is getting loud. His breath picks up. His heart does, too. Eric looks a little less secure, but the pompous expression is still beneath it all. Craig knows that for a

**Fun Fact: Eric Cartman has disgustingly acute and thought-out charm— just as such, his bravado remains intact.**

“Speak, asshole, _yo_ _u think it’s okay to grope my sister?_ She’s a freshman, you creep, she’s fourteen! _She’s fourteen_.” Craig strengthens his hold on the collar of Eric’s shirt. Eric glances around the hallway. Craig pushes higher, closer to Eric’s throat. Instinctively, Eric leans back. “If you were just five months older, that would be _very_ illegal, do you understand that?”

**Fun Fact: Eric’s gone a little red.**

“What the fuck possessed you to do that, anyway?” Craig asks. “ _What the fuck_ made that sound like a good idea? What sick sense of control do you need? Or is it a sexual thing? Do you get off on that shit? Is that it? Do you like—”

“Ew, Craig, gross,” Eric says. “I just think it’s funny, that’s all, jeez, way to make it into something weird... you sure you’re not the one into it? Are you projecting?”

Craig snaps, “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“You heard me.”

Heat wraps around Craig’s lungs. He can feel his cheeks burning from anger. His brows furrow. There’s a blooming bruise on Eric’s left cheek. It looks almost identical to Stan’s. Craig’s breath tries to escape him. He doesn’t let it. Eric slips out of Craig’s grip. He begins on his way down the hallway. Craig follows. When he gets close enough, Craig’s fingers close around Eric’s wrist, and Craig twists Eric’s arm back. Eric yelps.

“Ow, hey! The fuck, dude?” Eric can’t pull away. Well, he can, but if he tries, he’ll risk more pain. He knows this. Craig likes the control over this motherfucker. Eric furrows his brows. There is amusement in his expression. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Craig.”

“Oh, yeah?” Craig replies. “And why not?”

“Because I know your little secret,” Eric says, grinning. “And I could tell that little secret, couldn’t I, Craig? I could tell, and then you’d be sent to juvie.”

Craig’s heart beats frantically in his chest. He can hear it in his ears, squeezing. He pulls Eric back by his arm, causing Eric to hiss in pain. Craig doesn’t care.

**Fun Fact: Craig doesn’t give a single fuck.**

“You think I care about that?” Craig asks lowly. “You think I give a damn? Newsflash, idiot, I wouldn’t be doing this—”

Craig punctuates that with a jerk of Eric’s arm. Eric bites his lip.

“—if I still gave a flying shit about what would happen to me.”

Eric turns his gaze away. Expletives fill the cracks of Craig’s mind. He’s overwhelmed with an urge to call Eric every name in the book, and then some. He’s tempted— so, so fucking _tempted_ — to drag Eric to the principal’s office and say everything he knows Eric has done.

But he doesn’t want to put Tweek on blast like that. He doesn’t want to out his sister’s experience. He doesn’t want to hurt them by making them testify against the person who tried to— who _did_ —

Craig digs his nails into the flesh of Eric’s wrist. “Pussy,” Eric says.

Something happens.

Craig tightens his grip on Eric’s arm, grabs his shoulder, and spins him around. In a matter of seconds, he has Eric held up against the wall again. This time, it is different.

 **Craig:**  
**I. has one hand tight on Eric’s throat**

**II. pins Eric to the wall with his free arm, and**

**III. keeps Eric trapped with the weight of his body.**

**(IV. has the advantage of height.)**

“How does it feel?” Craig asks, squeezing Eric’s throat tighter. Eric’s face is reddening quickly, and he tries to push at Craig’s chest. Craig slams the palm not being used to choke Eric against the wall right next to Eric’s head, leaning in to growl, “ _How does it feel to lose control?_ ”

Craig imagines a scenario where he kicks Eric Cartman in the balls. He imagines it vividly, and the teasing satisfaction almost beckons him to do it. He tells himself it wouldn't be uncalled for. It would be deserved, for hurting Tweek, for hurting his sister, for  _doing something_ to Kyle. All of the shit piles up on Craig until he can't breathe. His grip tightens on Eric's throat, his chest feels empty, and it would be so easy.

So, humiliatingly, easy.

_To smash Eric's head into the wall._

Eric tugs at Craig's hand, urging him to let go. His mouth is moving, and he's probably trying to talk, but Craig's ears are buzzing and his eyes are moving everywhere that doesn't matter. He wants to do unforgivable, atrocious things. He wants to regain control by losing it.

He wants to lose it.

He wants to...

**With:  
I. muscles tensing**

**II. breath catching, and**

**III. stomach squeezing**

**(IV. Craig lets go.)**

Craig backs up, and the suddenness of his withdrawal is enough to force Eric to double over, gasping theatrically for air.

“Tell,” says Craig, hoarse. Something in his throat is sucking, aching, a specific spot that tells him not to speak. He swallows it down. “Tell, see if I fucking care.”

Craig turns. He refuses to accompany Eric any further. He can fucking take care of himself.

 **Craig:**  
**I. leaves the school**

**II. hops into his car, and**

**III. gets the hell out of Dodge.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	61. Act IX Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe that could be his break.

**The List of Important Events, leading to Craig’s business, pt. 1:**  
**I. Craig’s father had a heart attack.**

Craig’s drive leads him to Stark’s Pond. He doesn’t come here often— not lately, at least. There had been a phase in which he would visit nearly every day at the edge of the water, staring at the sky and contemplating where he’d be able to find the constellation he’d become newly enamored with. But that had been years ago, when he was a kid, and when he didn’t care nearly as much. That had been before the migraines. That had been a simpler time.

**Fun Fact: Craig wants to go back to that.**

Craig climbs out of the car and makes his way through the deep snow. The water of the pond has frozen. He’s only slightly disappointed about that. Craig approaches the bench, wipes the snow off of it, and sits down. It’s cold, and not particularly pleasant, but it’s better than standing in almost a foot of glorified frost. He didn’t wear the best shoes for winter weather. Then again, he doesn’t own more than one pair. It’s an expense he’s not willing to splurge on.

It’s not very eventful. Craig doesn’t have anything planned. He simply sits, staring out at the pond, squinting against the monochrome, bright-gray sky. Everything is so white. It’s like Christmas. This is how Christmas should have looked. Christmas had been pretty dreary. Craig spent most of it in bed. He wasn’t sick, he didn’t have a migraine, he just felt asocial and exhausted. He slept most of it away. He supposes, in retrospect, he regrets that.

Then again, in retrospect, he regrets a lot of things.

Without his brain telling him to, Craig slouches. He scoots back, sitting deeper on the bench, and pulls his legs up with him. He hugs his knees to his chest. He rests his forehead on them. The lights hurt his eyes. He doesn’t want to look at any of this, anymore. He doesn’t understand why he came here. He doesn’t understand it at all. It’d been an impulse. A stupid, meaningless impulse. Craig doesn’t like those.

Wind blows through. Some of the snow dusts and flutters across the banks. He feels the snowflakes land on him, and he hears the noise it makes. It’s a sandy sound. He could stay here. He could sit, silent, with his eyes closed and his body shivering, in the cold forever. Until someone found him, of course. Maybe he could end up like the ice man. Maybe he could get frozen for thirty-two months. Maybe his family would forget, and maybe Tweek would move on. Maybe it’d be like taking a break. Maybe that could be his break. He could use a break.

Craig hears footsteps trudging through the snow. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t feel capable. The person walks up to the bench and sits down. The bench creaks beneath their weight. Craig can feel their presence. It’s strong, and particularly glaring. He should look up, probably. He should make sure this is someone he knows, and not some random creep, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t really care.

**Fun Fact: Only five percent of Abell 2744’s mass is actually made up of galaxies.**

“You good?” the person asks, and immediately, Craig knows it’s Kenny. Only his voice would be muffled like that. Craig opens his eyes, and although his face is still pressed into his knees, he can see the orange of Kenny’s parka. Craig doesn’t know if he wants to talk to Kenny. Craig doesn’t know if he wants to talk to anyone. He feels a little raw, like he’d start crying at a moments notice. That’s dumb. That’s really dumb. Kenny shifts. “Craig, what are ya thinkin’ about?”

_He had a heart attack._

Craig mumbles, “My dad.” He squeezes himself into as compact of a ball as possible, ignoring the scraping feeling of his jeans against his skin.

“Yeah?” replies Kenny. “What about him?”

“He had a heart attack,” Craig says. He doesn’t know why he’s talking about it. He’s gotten away without for years. Two. Almost two, to be exact, and to be more exact than that, approximately one year and nine months. He can’t talk about it without getting freaked out. He can’t listen to Demi Lovato’s song _Heart Attack_ without getting angry.

It’s stupid, but it’s true.

“Fun fact, I had to drive him to the hospital,” Craig says. “Fun fact, that was my first driving experience. Fun fact, I almost killed us on the way.”

Craig remembers that day vividly. He remembers his father laying in the grass. He remembers helping him into the car. He doesn’t remember the drive. He remembers the look on his dad’s face. Craig inhales.

“Fun fact,” Craig adds, “if we’d arrived at the hospital just thirty minutes later, he’d be dead.”

It’s a very gray morning. Very gray. And white. Primarily, it is bright. Craig is the darkest thing out here.

**Fun Fact: Craig’s favorite tree is a birch tree.**

“I’m really sorry, man,” Kenny says. “I had no idea.”

Craig doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, if anything.

“Are you okay?” Kenny asks.

“I’m okay,” Craig says.

“Are you sure?” Kenny asks.

“I’m sure,” Craig says.

There’s a pause.

“I didn’t know you texted me,” Craig says. “I didn’t see them until yesterday, my phone was turned off.”

“That’s fine,” Kenny says.

“No, it’s not.”

Craig looks up, pulling his face out of his knees. The cold air stings his cheeks. Kenny has his hood up. It covers most of his face. It’s normal. The world keeps turning. The world keeps spinning, even when one of them is in the hospital. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? South Park had a _them_ , in the minds of the group. Craig and those guys, Stan and those idiots. They were _them_ , and Stan was one of _them_. They were a unit.

“I could have done something,” Craig says. “If I’d have kept my phone on, maybe things would be normal right now.”

Kenny is frowning. Craig can tell. Craig looks away. Kenny says, “Don’t beat yourself up over it, dude, it’s not your fault.”

“How do you know that?” Craig asks. “How do you know I didn’t fuck this up? I did, Kenny, it’s my fault.”

“I _know_ it isn’t your fault,” Kenny says, looking at Craig, “And he _told me_ it wasn’t your fault.”

Craig is silent. There is a question of _who is he_ , but they know. They both know who _he_ is. Another cloud passes over the sun. The pond is shadowed, for a few seconds, and then the sun comes back. The snow shines and glares with the light. “He told you what?” Craig asks. Kenny pulls his phone out of his pocket. He clicks to something. He hands the phone over to Craig.

Craig feels sick. Craig takes Kenny’s phone. Craig reads the text.

STAN (imy)  
  
tell craig it isnt his fault end tell kyle I love him  
  


Craig rereads it. And rereads it. Again, and again, and again, like maybe it’ll change. Like it’ll morph into a blame of him. But it doesn’t.

These could very possibly be the last words of Stan Marsh.

Craig’s eyes start to burn. He hands the phone back to Kenny, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the pinpricks. He gasps a soft, “Dammit.”

Craig needs time to recover. Kenny doesn’t rush him. A small animal scatters up a tree. Snow falls from the branches. Another wind passes.

“I think about it every second of every day,” Kenny says. It sounds like a confession. Craig closes his eyes to listen. “At first, I didn’t understand why he’d text _me_ , of all people. We were close, but not the closest, y’know? And then it hit me.”

A quiet. Craig opens his eyes and buries his face into the fabric of his sweater, shielding his airways from the cold. He doesn’t have to, but he does it anyway. He glances to Kenny.

**Kenny:**  
**I. stares out at the lake, with**

**II. the emptiest eyes Craig has ever seen.**

“I live the furthest away,” Kenny whispers. “He texted me, because he knew it’d take me the longest to get there, or— react, maybe, I don’t know, okay?”

Kenny’s voice goes quiet, like he’s run out of air.

“I used to think something kind of fucked up,” Kenny says. “I... I used to think, like...”

Kenny coughs into his elbow, dry. He picks back up again after a few seconds of silence.

“There are people who try to kill themselves because they want help, but don’t know how to ask for it,” Kenny says. “Or because no one will listen to them, and they think, _maybe this’ll do it,_ y’know? _Maybe now they’ll listen,_ sort of a thing.”

Kenny pulls his foot up onto the bench, picking at the laces of his boot. Craig feels perturbed by the absence of Kenny’s expression in this conversation. “That’s messed up,” Craig says. Kenny shrugs.

“Sure, it’s messed up, I know, and so is everything else,” Kenny says. “But that’s not my point.”

Craig wants to ask what his point is, then, but he doesn’t. Craig may not be the best at emotions, or being able to pick up on the obvious things, but even he can tell that Kenny isn’t doing well. Thus, Craig withholds questions. He simply listens.

“So, there are people out there who try to kill themselves because of that, and then there are people who try to kill themselves because they don’t give a damn anymore,” Kenny says. His picking finally undoes the knot of his laces. His hands are quickly occupied by retying them. “There are other reasons, of course, but I can’t list all of ‘em, now, can I?”

Craig frowns.

“And the people who do it because they lost themselves… you have to get to them before they can try any bullshit,” Kenny says. He shakes his head, then, apparently messing up his shoelace. He unties it. “Those are the people you really gotta look out for, because they’re determined to fucking end it, dude, they just want it all to…”

Kenny stops. His fingers shake. He has trouble retying his laces. He gives up for the moment, dropping his head into his hands. Craig feels his chest tighten.

“It’s binary. Or, that’s what I _used_ to think, at least, but then Stan—” Kenny has to cut off. Craig doesn’t know the reasoning, but he knows it’s a necessity. “I thought he was hurting himself because he wanted help, and maybe he was, to some extent, but…”

Kenny pulls his face out of his hands and, with renewed vigor, reattempts his shoelace.

“But he wanted to die, nonetheless,” Kenny says. “I didn’t get to him in time, because I was presumptuous and I didn’t fucking talk to him about it, okay? And now I fucking get it, I get that no matter the reasoning, it’s still a fucking serious thing, and in the end,  _I_ failed him.”

Kenny succeeds with the shoelace. He puts his foot back down, off of the bench seat. His cheeks are red, and so are his eyes.

“So if it’s _anyone’s_ fault, it’s _mine_ , okay?” Kenny says, looking at Craig. Craig can’t help but wince at the volume. Kenny looks away again. “It’s my fault.”

Craig furrows his brows. Kenny keeps his head tipped down, his attention averted elsewhere— anywhere other than the conversation. Craig doesn’t blame him. Craig wants to tell Kenny it wasn’t his fault ( ~~it was Craig’s~~ ), but Craig thinks that might make him a hypocrite.

Craig glances away. He glues his gaze to the horizon, where the trees can be seen over the other edge of the lake.

How did everything fuck up this badly?

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Kenny eventually says. Craig breathes.

Kenny, does, too.

“Would you like to go see him?” Kenny asks. “Stan, I mean?”

Craig says nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	62. Act IX Scene IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human.

**The List of Important Events, leading to Craig’s business, pt. 2:**  
**II. Mr. Tucker was “layed off,” which**

**III. is just a nicer way of saying “fired”.**

The elevator they ride up to the fourth floor looks like something out of a horror movie. There are no handles. The lights are dim. There are blankets hung on three of the four walls. They’re beige, like everything else in the hospital. Someone once told him that hospitals utilize shades of beige because they are calming. Craig has never understood it. It’s just a color. What’s calming about a color?

At the same time, though, he gets it.

Craig rubs his wrist as he and Kenny step out of the elevator. It’s almost nine-forty. The hall is even darker than the elevator had been. As they walk, they pass an abandoned gurney. There’s a blanket tossed haphazardly onto it. That’s the only thing in that hall, other than windowless doors and signs for the different units. Craig vaguely remembers the woman at the desk telling them which unit Stan was in, but he doesn’t actually remember the words. He just remembers the fact that it happened.

They turn left at an intersection of corridors. Stan is in 4268. That much, Craig remembers. He’s on the fourth floor, room 4268, in some miscellaneous unit that Craig didn’t want to pay attention to. Kenny’s in charge here, anyway. Kenny knew the number already. He’s visited Stan every day since it happened. There are only three people who visit Stan more than Kenny does.

 **Those three people:**  
**I. Sharon Marsh**

**II. Randy Marsh, and**

**III. Kyle Broflovski**

**(information sourced from Kenny.)**

The dim hallway morphs into a brighter sub-unit just outside of the main station of rooms, separated only by a set of heavy push-doors. Craig hesitates before following Kenny past those doors. Whatever unit this is, it consists of a pod of ten or twelve rooms on the outside, which are circling three large desks that a few nurses bustle around. Craig feels distinctly out of place. Craig feels in the way. Kenny asks Craig if he’s okay, to which Craig responds he’s fine.

Kenny greets one of the nurses as they walk past some of the rooms. He’s casual, yet solemn— like he’s comfortable, but he understands the seriousness of this. Like he’s been here hundreds of thousands of times, but for significantly less severe reasons. Craig finds that interesting, but he doesn’t say anything on it. Now isn’t the time for that. They reach the room. 4268 is bright inside from natural light. The snowfall sheds in a particular levity. There is a curtain drawn up. Likely for privacy, to some extent.

Craig halts just outside the room. He is hit with reluctance. He’d hesitated before, but now, he feels frozen. His legs refuse to take him further. Kenny has already entered the room. He has his hands in his pockets. He glances to where he thinks Craig is, and seems confused when Craig isn’t next to him. Kenny turns, then, giving Craig a _you coming?_ look. Craig flips him off. Kenny ignores the gesture. He waves Craig into the room. Slowly, Craig steps in. They shuffle beyond the curtain.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Craig says. He can’t help it. He raises his hands up to his face and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to erase the image or erase the situation. Either way, it’s burned into his brain. Someone is touching his shoulder, asking him if he’s okay. He knows it’s Kenny. Craig rubs at his eyes. He says he’s fine. Because he is. He drops his hands to his sides, and opens his eyes, and blinks through the almost blinding sunlight.

 **The List of Important Events, leading to Craig’s business, pt. 3:**  
**IV. Craig’s migraines got worse, so**

**V. Craig was prescribed a triptan.**

Stan is hooked up to machines. Craig doesn’t know how many there are, and he doesn’t know how many are actually doing anything— there are too many tubes and lines to be able to trace them all individually. Craig pays attention to the things he understands, like the fact that Stan is intubated. There’s a tube in Stan’s mouth. A machine whirs in tandem with the rise and fall of Stan’s chest.

There is no tension in Stan’s body. This is the most relaxed Craig has ever seen him. He just looks like he’s asleep. That must be it, right? He’s just asleep. There is no tube in his throat, there are no vitals being displayed on a screen next to his bed, he’s just asleep. Distantly, Craig wonders what Stan is dreaming about.

“Do you want a minute with him?” Kenny asks. Craig pulls his gaze away from Stan to look at Kenny. He has a firm expression. It’s strange. Craig isn’t used to it. Craig looks back to Stan. He’s afraid of being left alone with him, but he nods, even so. Kenny pats him on the back and then leaves the room. Craig doesn’t watch him go, so he doesn’t know where exactly he decides to wait, but if Craig had to guess, he’d say Kenny would linger just outside the door.

Craig spots a chair over by the window. He slowly goes to grab it and then drags it over, keeping a foot or so away from Stan’s bedside. He sits down. The machine whirs again. Stan’s chest rises. Craig looks at the machine that shows Stan’s vitals. He tries to make sense of it, but it isn’t labeled in a way he can understand. It’s just letters and numbers and lines. Electric colors. Polygons.

 **The List of Important Events, leading to Craig’s business, pt. 4:**  
**VI. the heat was shut off, and**

**VII. they began to skip breakfast to save money.**

“Hi,” Craig says. For a while, that’s it. He doesn’t know what it is he’s supposed to do. Is he supposed to hold Stan’s hand? Is he supposed to talk to him? He’s seen this exact situation in movies, before. Person A is in a coma. Person B comes in, sits down, holds their hand and strokes their hair, and proceeds to give quite the endearing monologue about how _you mean everything to me, [_ insert name here _]._

Craig doesn’t know if he wants to do that. He doesn’t know if he wants to impart knowledge of his emotional state to this unconscious, physical representation of the same kid who tried to save baby cows from slaughter when they were eight.

But at the same time, this might be his last chance to be honest with Stan.

This might be his last chance to say goodbye.

“Can you hear me?” Craig asks. Of course, there’s no response. Stan just breathes— or, maybe more accurately, the machine breathes for him. The thought makes Craig’s throat feel bitter. He swallows. “You better be able to, dummy, because I’m not going to say all of this again. Okay?”

 _Puff-puff._ Stan breathes. (The machine breathes for him.) That’s a good enough affirmation for Craig.

“You never really meant a whole lot to me,” Craig says. “You’re really annoying, and you’re a dick, and you did a lot of kind of fucked up shit, and you’re selfish and kind of a self-righteous jackass. And you brought me to Peru. So, fuck you, first of all.”

 _Puff-puff._ Stan breathes. (The machine.) Craig shuts his eyes. He rubs his forehead.

“But, um…”

Craig inhales. He leans forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees for just a few seconds. When he sits up again, he scoots closer to the side of the bed. If he wanted to, he could touch Stan’s arm. Craig doesn’t do that, though. That’d be stupid.

“But I think that’s kind of the ironic thing?” he whispers, watching Stan’s unconscious body lay still. “You never really meant a whole lot to me, and I couldn’t have really given much of a shit, but now that you’re not there— now that you’re not in the background, or whatever, I…”

 _Puff-puff._ Stan. The machine.

“I realize just how much I miss your bullshit?”

 **The List of Important Events, leading to Craig’s business, pt. 5:**  
**VIII. Craig’s guilt got in the way of rational thought, so**

**IX. Craig asked Kenny if any of the places he worked at were hiring.**

_Puff-puff._ Stan. Machine.

“And how much I hate myself for… for letting this happen, I guess, I don’t— I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. Shut up, stop looking at me like that.”

 _Puff-puff._ Stan isn’t looking at him. Stan breathes. Stan isn’t looking at anything. (And the machine breathes for him.)

“I could have— stopped this? I could have made sure you didn’t… I could have been more insistent, I could have punched you in the face or something, I don’t know, I don’t fucking know, and I just—” Craig drops his head into his hands. He hears the machine. He hears the wind outside. He sniffs, trying to force the tears back. When he feels strong enough to continue, he sits back up. “I just—”

It spills. Everything, all at once, all of it. Craig dips his head down. He shuts his eyes, which causes the tears to come faster, to drip down from his cheeks and land on his jeans. He rubs at his knees. The fabric is rough against his palms. His hands are shaking. He inhales, but the breath stutters.

“Everything feels wrong without you around to fuck it up,” Craig says. “And I hate you for that, you fucking idiot, I hate you, because I’m only now realizing just how much I _didn’t hate you_ , and you might die thinking I did, but I—”

 **The List of Important Events, leading to Craig’s business, pt. 6:**  
**X. Kenny said one was, and**

**XI. Kenny offered Craig the business.**

**Fun Fact: The heat hasn’t been shut off since.**

The machine.

“—I _didn’t_ ,” Craig says. “I don’t, okay? I envy you because of your stupid perfect life and the way things always seemed to make sense for you, you _idiot_ , and I hated how— how you never seemed to realize it, and I hated it because everything always seems to turn out for you, even after you’ve been halfway across the world and back, and…”

Breathe.

“And…”

Breathe.

“A-and…”

Breathe. (the machine.)

“I know what it’s like to feel lonely,” Craig says. He turns his gaze away from Stan, towards the window behind himself. It still snows, coming down in thick flakes. “I think I got so caught up in the fact that I was lonely, that I forgot to realize other people feel lonely, too.”

Craig is not a robot. Neither is Stan.

“I never wanted you to do this,” Craig says, looking back at Stan. He ignores the tubes and wires and keeps his gaze focused on Stan’s face. Pale and slack and not there. His eyes are closed.

**Fun Fact: Only five percent of Abell 2744’s mass is actually made up of galaxies.**

**Fun Fact: Craig only knew five percent of Stan.**

Craig scoots up the rest of the way and reaches forward, taking Stan’s hand in his own. His skin is cold. Dry. But soft. Human.

“I’m going to stop selling,” Craig says. “I want to help people, okay? I don’t want to hurt people.”

Craig stands, keeping his hand over Stan’s.

“This won't happen again,” Craig says. “I won't let it.”

Craig looks at Stan’s face, at his closed eyes, at his mussed hair. It still looks soft, though it’s unkempt. Craig takes a deep breath. With his free hand, he reaches up and threads his fingers through Stan’s hair. It feels a little wiry.

“Love you, fuzzball,” Craig whispers. He pulls away from Stan, wiping his eyes free of tears with the back of his sleeve. “You idiot.”

Craig pushes the chair back over to its rightful spot next to the window. He’s still recovering. His face still feels hot from crying, but he knows he’ll be over it soon enough. If nothing else, the cold from outside will help him feel a little less distraught.

When Craig turns to leave, he comes face to face with Kyle. Craig stops where he stands, just a foot away. Kyle isn’t moving. He’s just standing there near the end of Stan’s bed, staring at Craig with that signature glare of his. Craig sees a nurse pass by the window next to the door of Stan’s room. Craig’s attention snaps back to Kyle, though, when Kyle takes a step forward.

Kyle lifts a hand like he’s about to smack Craig. Craig ignores the urge to back away. Craig stands his ground. Craig glances at Stan. The machine makes noise. Craig looks back to Kyle.

Kyle’s hand, tense, halts just before Craig’s face. Craig prepares himself to be slapped, staring right into the angry hazel eyes of Kyle, but the impact never comes.

Instead, Kyle drops his hand to Craig’s chest, digs his fingers into Craig’s sweater, and pulls him into a hug. Craig is rendered motionless. He doesn’t know what he is supposed to do. Kyle has begun to cry.

“I’m so sorry,” Kyle says. “I’m so sorry.”

Craig pats Kyle’s back and tells him it’s okay.

It’ll be okay.

**Fact: We'll be okay.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to add this in again:  
> Suicide is never the answer.  
> hotline number, if needed:  
> 1-800-273-8255  
> you're not alone.  
> list of numbers for those outside of the usa:  
> http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	63. Act IX Scene V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s okay to sit in silence.

They wait at the hospital until Craig feels okay enough to drive. Once he’s stopped rubbing at his arms, Kenny gives him back the keys. It’s Craig’s car, but Kenny stole them because he didn’t want Craig to flip his shit in the middle of the drive. Craig respects that about Kenny.

**Fact: Kenny is really quite intuitive.**

Craig climbs into the driver’s seat and Kenny hops into the passenger’s side. They buckle. Craig offers to drive Kenny home, but Kenny politely declines. Kenny tells Craig that his house smells like total shit because of some major fuck-up with product. He doesn’t want to go back there for now, or risk any contact-highs, or whatnot. The situation is unclear, but Craig doesn’t press. They decide to head to Craig’s place. Once there, they’ll hang and play a video game or watch a movie, just to get the whole ordeal out of their heads. Both of them need something to soothe the ache. Both of them need something to feel okay.

Craig turns the key in the ignition and puts the car into gear. He backs out of the parking space and exits the lot, being careful as he merges onto the highway. The car still rumbles, the engine still needs work, the catalytic converter is still fucked, but it’s okay. Craig pulls down the sun visor so he can see the road better, and Kenny hits the button for the radio. The station plays some classics. _Piano Man_ by Billy Joel, _Come Sail Away_ by Styx, and something Craig’s never heard before, that he didn’t pay attention to.

When The Beatles start to play, Craig turns the radio off. He sees Kenny give him a weird look out of the corner of his gaze. “Something wrong, dude?” Kenny asks.

Craig tells him, “The Beatles make me squeamish.” Kenny still looks a little confused, but doesn’t say anything else about it. Craig is thankful for that, though he doesn’t say it. He’s sure that Kenny gets it. He changes lanes as they reach a stoplight, listening to the soft, metronome-like quality of the turn signal. It reminds him of Pandora. She would wag her tail to the exact beat. _Thump-thump thump-thump_. He wants to take her for a walk. He wants to play with her. He wants to pet her and tell her she’s a good girl, because she is. She’s so good, being so patient with him and the weight of managing two people’s issues.

“Butters told me about what you did,” Kenny says abruptly. He has sunken deeper into the passenger’s seat, his knees up on the dash. He turns his phone over in his hands, fidgeting with it mindlessly.

“Don’t sit like that,” Craig says. Kenny quirks a brow.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because if we crash, your legs are going to go straight through your chest, and then you will die.”

“Okay, whatever you say, Grey’s Anatomy.” Kenny takes his legs off of the dash and sits up properly. For that, too, Craig is thankful. The light turns green. Craig puts his foot on the gas. He turns the steering wheel with practiced ease. Kenny repeats, “Butters told me about what you did.”

Craig asks, “What’d I do?”

“About the cigarettes,” Kenny elaborates. He coughs into his elbow, shoving his phone into his pocket. He’s done playing with it, apparently. He pulls his arm away from his face and leans his head back against the seat. “How you took them so he wouldn’t get cancer.”

“Oh,” says Craig.

“Yeah.”

They’re back on the highway. They travel down the road at sixty-five. Craig keeps his eyes focused, glancing rhythmically between the road, the rear-view, and the side-view mirrors. He barely glances at the speedometer. After driving so often, he has a good handle on how fast he’s going without looking. He supposes it’s a neat skill to have, if not a little useless in just how focused it is. A little niche, he’d say.

“Thanks,” Kenny says. Craig keeps his eyes on the road.

“Thanks for what?”

“For— y’know, the cigarettes thing,” answers Kenny. He shoves his hands into his pockets, gazing blankly out the windshield. “I didn’t want him to get cancer, either, y’know, but he doesn’t listen to me, and I mean… it ain’t my place to tell him what to do.”

Craig hums. “He only does it to impress you.”

Kenny makes a strange grunt of a noise in response. “Huh? Whaddaya mean?”

“Smoking,” Craig says. “He’s only doing it to impress you. It probably started out that way, at least. Now I think he’s addicted.”

For a moment, Kenny says nothing. Craig doesn’t force him to. It’s okay to sit in silence. The bumping roll of the road beneath the tires, the hum of the asphalt and tar— it keeps them enough company as it is. The ambiance and sounds, however, are not meant to last on their own forever. Kenny says, “The fuck?”

Craig is unsure of how to take that. He takes it the only way he knows how. He elaborates on his research. “He’s seen your porno mags,” he says. “Most of them have women smoking cigarettes and shit, stuff that was hot back when smoking was thought of as good for you.”

“What’s that gotta do with him?” Kenny asks.

“He likes you a lot, that’s what it has to do with him.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything, but Craig isn’t upset by that. He understands. He’s not sure of the relationship between Kenny and Butters, but he’s almost certain that it isn’t an established romance. Kenny has a soft-spot for Butters, but that doesn’t mean he likes him like that. Kenny drops his head into his hands, then, his gloves shifting against the fabric of his parka. He takes down his hood and smooths his hair back. There’s a healing abrasion on his nose. “Oh, shit,” Kenny whispers. He sounds distraught. “I don’t look at the cigarettes, I look at the tits! Shit, man, I… fuck, how am I supposed to tell him I don’t swing that way?”

“He knows,” Craig says. A guy driving an Impala comes speeding down in the next lane. Craig ignores the urge to flip the asshole off. “Trust me, Butters might act stupid and ignorant, but he’s not. That’s why he’s caught up on the cigarettes, he’s in denial.”

Kenny lets loose a few more expletives. It’s a couple minutes more before they enter the main neighborhood of South Park. Kenny is still upset, but he hasn’t said anything. He’s moved to staring out the passenger’s side window.

“Don’t take my word for it,” Craig says. Kenny looks at him. Craig tries to ignore the fact that they’re passing the Marsh house. “I’m confident in my information, but I’ve been wrong before. I’m human, okay? So don’t take my observations as fact. It might just be that Butters picked it up for the hell of it.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to do something without a reason,” Kenny says. Craig can’t help but agree. “I think… I think I’ll ask him about why he started, though, just to— y’know, get a feel for things. I don’t want to lead him on when nothing can happen. I don’t want to fuck him over like that.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” says Craig. Kenny hums his agreement. He pulls his phone back out to resume playing with it, turning it over and over in his hands. A fidget. An expensive fidget, that can’t do a whole lot other than text and call, but a fidget nonetheless. They drive for a few more minutes through the neighborhood. They pass Butters’ house. They pass Eric’s house. They approach—

Kenny sits up straighter and blurts, “Dude, the hell?”

Craig puts his foot on the brakes, slowing significantly as they get closer to his house. He would ask what Kenny is freaked over, but it would be pointless. He knows. He sees.

A cop car, parked just outside Craig’s lawn. Craig comes to a stop behind them, a few feet from his driveway. The Crown Vic’s driver side door creeps open. Out steps a man in uniform: a police officer, donning the whole getup. Craig’s heart leaps into his throat. He’s certain, a million percent certain, that he’s not left any tracks in accordance to his business, but he’s still uncomfortable. Craig shifts into park, turns off the car, and watches. Silent. The officer comes up to the window and knocks.

Craig draws in a deep breath and rolls down the window.

“What can I do for you, officer?” Craig asks, as polite as possible. He keeps his hands on the steering wheel. Visible. The officer, with one hand resting on top of the vehicle and the other on his hip, does not look impressed. He has a mustache, dark and graying from age or stress. Craig can’t tell which.

“What’s your name?” The officer asks. Craig’s heart speeds up. He glances at Kenny, who looks equally as unnerved.

“Craig,” Craig answers. He wonders if his hesitance incriminated him for something. The officer adjusts.

“Craig what?”

“Tucker,” says Craig. “Craig Tucker.”

Something shifts. The officer’s mustache twitches. His eyes are glaring and sharp, like he’s been through this shit time and time again. Odds are, he has. That expression speaks of experience. Craig can feel his heartbeat in his ears. He can hear his blood pumping through his veins. The officer says, “Step out of the car for me, sir.”

Craig has never been referred to as sir. It compresses his lungs. He forces himself to remain calm. With shaking hands, he unbuckles himself and immediately raises his hands to be visible again. His parents used to tell him what to do in the event of being stopped by the police. They used to tell him to obey, to keep his hands visible, to never make any sudden moves. To stay calm. To not fight.

Craig steps out of the car. He shuts the door behind him. The officer is waiting. One hand dangles at his side, the other hand has hooked into his belt. Craig keeps his gaze sturdy. He takes in a deep breath. He starts to ask, “What seems to—”

The officer withdraws a pair of handcuffs from his belt. He steps forward, leading with his right. “Turn around, hands behind your back,” he calmly orders. Craig fights the urge to gasp. He feels like he can’t get enough air. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening, right? No. No it isn’t happening. He’s dreaming. The officer’s expression hardens and he repeats, more insistently, “Turn around, hands behind your back.”

Craig is shocked into stillness. He doesn’t move. That’s a mistake. The officer moves into action. He grabs Craig by the arm and spins him around, firm. Craig hisses, instinctively trying to pull away. “Hey, let go of me, you asshole—”

The officer’s grip goes from firm to almost bruising in a matter of seconds. Craig winces, squeezing his eyes shut at the tight hold. The officer tugs him sideways just enough so Craig can be bent over the hood of the car. Craig’s shoulders ache, his arms feel twisted, pushed in a way that doesn’t feel natural, behind him. His heart pumps faster. He squirms. The officer tells him something, but he doesn’t hear it.

“Let go of me!” Craig says. There’s ice on the hood of his car. It melts and wets his sweater. He can feel the presence of the officer behind him, unmoving and ultimately in control. Craig breathes in shakily. One of the cuffs goes around his wrist. It clicks. Tight. It pinches. Craig takes in another breath. Snow still falls from the clouds above them. The sky is still a blinding gray. The officer moves in with the other cuff. Craig shakes his head. He squirms more intently, trying to stand upright. The officer shoves a hand into his back and pins him to the hood.

The passenger’s side door to Craig’s car shoots open. Kenny hops out. “Hey, what the fuck!” he says.

“Stay in the car!” orders the officer. The heel of his palm is sharp against Craig’s spine, it digs into him and forces him to relent without option. His face is so close to the cold of the hood. His breath fogs in front of his face. The cuff clicks harder, digging into his wrist. He clenches his fists. The pain worsens. Craig squeezes his eyes shut. The officer pushes harder. “I said stay in the car, kid!”

Craig thinks about Pandora. He has to make sure she has food. He has to feed her. He has to play with her. He has to let her out. He tries again to break free, but it’s useless. His strength has withered. He’s tired, worn from the cold. It aggravates his nose and throat. He thunks his head against the car. His hat is the only thing between his head and the ice. Craig doesn’t know what’s going on, but the officer isn’t saying anything more to Kenny. He can only assume Kenny has decided to obey.

“You are under arrest,” gruffs the officer. “On suspicion of drug possession and sexual assault—”

Craig’s eyes shoot open wide. “ _What_?” he cries, renewed in his struggle. He swallows a wave of nausea down. “ _I didn’t_ —!”

“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer continues. Craig bites at the inside of his cheek when the remaining cuff snaps onto his other wrist. “Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law...”

 **The Miranda Rights:**  
**I. You have the right to remain silent.**

**II. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.**

**III. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned.**

**IV. If you cannot afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish.**

**V. You can decide at any time to exercise these rights and not answer any questions or make any statements.**

**(VI. Do you understand each of these rights I have explained to you?)**

Craig’s breathing has picked up. He’s doing his best to bite back the retorts, the cries of confusion, the questions. He bites until he tastes blood, and keeps biting still, the pain not yet processing as he knows it will. The wind blows. Quietly, Craig replies, “Yes.”

“With these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us now?”

Even quieter, Craig says, “I’d like a lawyer.”

Like that’ll delay the inevitable.

**Fact: Craig is scared.**

The officer stands him upright. The cuffs dig into his wrists and bite like wild animals. Craig, eyes still wide, breathes through the heat that swarms his face and threatens to break his ribs. The officer tugs him along to the squad car, where a second officer has already opened the back door. Craig can see the cage, the uncomfortable plastic, the seat where he’ll be in five seconds, four seconds—

**I. three seconds**

**II. two seconds**

**III. one second**

Craig is turned. The officer places a hand atop Craig’s head and ducks him backwards into the car. Craig does not fight. Something scrapes the snow outside. He hears it. He turns his head, just in time to see Kenny emerging. Kenny’s expression is horrified, eyes wide and face pale. He stumbles forward in the inches of snow, his jeans caked in it. “ _Craig_ —” Kenny calls. Immediately, the officer barks at him to get back.

“Listen to them, McCormick!” Craig calls back, hopeful that Kenny can hear him. “Make sure Pandora’s okay, the spare key is under the mat!”

Kenny stares. Silently, he nods. The officer kicks Craig’s feet and legs into the car, constraining him to face forward. Craig bites back a metallic taste.

He trusts Kenny to know what to do. He trusts Kenny not to say anything. He trusts Kenny. They’ve been over this. They’ve talked about what to do if a situation were ever to arise. They know what to do in the case of an emergency.

Craig thinks of Tweek. His eyes go wide. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. He has to make sure Tweek is okay. He has to tell Tweek just how much he means to Craig, because he’s scared that he won’t ever get the chance again. He can’t lose anyone else. He can’t. He can’t have more people taken away from him without him being able to say goodbye. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. _He can’t._  Without thinking, Craig lunges— to say something, to see Kenny, to escape, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, but he’s standing and he starts to shout.

“ _Kenny, wait—_!”

He does not process the police officer grabbing him. The only thing Craig processes is the feeling of being trapped. Something floods him, makes him struggle, causes him to try and make a break for it. The sting of the cuffs hardly registers. The primal urge to escape overrides rational thought. He cannot see, he does not know, he just feels, fighting and squirming. He needs out. He needs to get out, _he needs to—_

“ _Get back in the damn car!_ ” The officer shouts, and starts reaching

**(I. for**

**II. his**

**III. gun)**

_Survive_.

Craig freezes. There is a moment, where he makes eye contact with the officer restraining him. A single moment, a fleeting second, where he tries to silently beg with the brown eyes of the man staring back at him. But there is a barrier, like Craig is an alien. Craig’s stillness is taken as submission. He is pushed back into the squad car. The door slams shut.

 **In the case of an emergency:**  
**I. Craig will take full responsibility.**

  
**END ACT NINE**  
**“Him”**


	64. Epilogue

**FADE IN:**

**EXT. A VERY REAL FOOTBALL FIELD — NOON**

There is no scene. Not today.

The volatile weather has forced the once-abundant snow to melt, leaving only mud and slush and drowning grass in its wake. Since Tweek’s shoes aren’t waterproof, his socks quickly become soaked through. He doesn’t mind it. It gives him an excuse to shiver. He drank coffee yesterday. He couldn’t help it. Everything bubbled up and forced him to bow down. How is he supposed to keep clean when he’s endlessly exposed to it?

He’s not. That’s the point.

Tweek finds himself trekking to the bleachers. The fake grass is overly springy on such a damp day. As he goes to climb the stairs, he leaves footprints on the cement. A flock of birds flies soundlessly overhead, black and uniform. It is, without a doubt, silent to a fault.

Tweek sits next to the slouched frame of Kyle, who has been settled five rows up from the first set of seats for the past hour. Guiltily, Tweek has been watching. The courage to sit with him arrived only moments ago. Tweek hasn’t spoken to Kyle since the day he tried to choke Craig. Tweek doesn’t know what it is he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t know, admittedly, if it really matters. He speaks anyway, of course, because of the pressure.

“I heard about what happened,” Tweek says, gazing out over the football field. Kyle only grunts in response. The wind picks up. Kyle grabs the sides of his sweater and tugs it closed in the offending chill. Tweek continues to shiver. “Do you… do you want to talk about it? It can help, I… I didn’t think it’d help, before, but it does, it… I won’t lie and say it’ll fix everything, nothing will do that, but it can make a difference, just to get the weight off of your chest and say—”

“No,” Kyle says. Tweek respects that.

“Okay.”

More wind. More birds. Kyle’s face is red from cold. Tweek feels an impulse to say something. He doesn’t want to say it. He is afraid, ridiculously, that it might tear through his throat and rip out his organs. He’s afraid it’ll bleed him dry. Overall, however, he is mostly just _afraid_. Tweek swallows.

Tweek pulls a crumpled piece of notebook paper out of his pocket. He contemplates setting it down on the surface of the bleacher bench between them, but he doesn’t. The bench is cold and wet; letting go of the paper would only make it fly away, anyway. Nothing happens for a while. It’s just them, in the frozen cold, until Kyle finally glances over. He doesn’t seem too intrigued by the piece of paper. Tweek is fine with that. He doesn’t expect much of a reaction.

“What’s this?” Tweek finally asks. He begins to unfold it to display the contents. As soon as the first verse is visible, Kyle snaps into action and yanks it away. Tweek almost expects Kyle to crush it, but he doesn’t. Kyle carefully folds it with shaking hands, reddened from the chill and paling from the pressure of his grip.

“Where did you get this?” Kyle asks.

“It was sticking out of Stan’s locker, man… if you don’t want people snooping in your shit, take better care of how you hide it,” Tweek says. Kyle doesn’t seem to take kindly to that. Tweek turns away, kicking at a flattened, wet leaf on the bench seat immediately in front of them. “So, what is it?”

It takes a while for Kyle to speak, and when he finally does, Tweek doesn’t get it. “ _Mizmor leDavid_.”

“What’s that?” Tweek asks.

“Look it up,” is all Kyle says. After fidgeting with that piece of paper for far too long, he gingerly puts it into the pocket of the sweatshirt he’s wearing. His gaze, soft and watering, observes the distant skyline in the fog that accumulates. Tweek frowns.

Hesitant, Tweek asks, “He did it to you, too, didn’t he?”

Kyle doesn’t move. His attention remains unwavering on the horizon. A second passes. Kyle scratches the side of his nose. Another second. Finally: “What do you mean?”

Kyle phrases it as a question, but his tone doesn’t reflect it. There is no asking— it’s an invitation to talk about it. Tweek tucks his arms, crossing them over his chest, to still the continuous shivering. He forewent a coat, too. He’s wearing one of Craig’s sweaters. It’s the type of thing Tweek would see in a movie. He did it for the irony. He did it because he knows that Craig is the type of guy who would say, “that’s so dumb” if he saw anyone _other_ than Tweek do it.

But he mostly did it because it still smells like Craig.

“The game,” Tweek says. Kyle takes in a breath. Tweek does, too. “The sick game, the one with the—”

“Yeah,” Kyle blurts. He scoots back on the bench seat, pulling his knees up to his chest as comfortably as he can manage. Tweek tries to keep his focus strictly to a puddle off in the distance, marking a divot in the unnaturally smooth terrain of the football field before them. “Yeah, I get it, I know.”

The sun doesn’t seem real, particularly in the realm of that puddle. There is no glow, just reflection and prodding fingernails of grass.

“You’re wearing Craig’s sweater,” Kyle says. He points it out like it’s ridiculous, something utterly laughable in the grand scheme of things. Tweek’s almost certain that, if Kyle had the mental and emotional bandwidth, he would be scoffing. Tweek doesn’t care. He taps his foot rhythmically against the seat of the bleacher he sits behind.

“So?” he asks. He glances over at Kyle, who still hugs himself from the cold. “You’re wearing Stan’s.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything to that. He just pulls the sweater tighter.

Water drips from the ends of the bleachers and into forming molds of dew. They become new puddles, little and long and bright and strong from the unrelenting monotony of it all. There are no clouds today, Tweek notices in vague disinterest. There are no clouds. The sky itself is just one giant cloud.

Tweek would like it to swallow him up. He grips the end of his sleeves in his palms and brings his hands to his face, breathing in the scent of someone absent. Kyle must take notice, because he asks, “Is he going to be okay?”

Tweek glances over again. He keeps his face buried in the fabric of his ex-boyfriend’s sweater. “I don’t know,” he answers. “Craig acts all tough, but he’s really a big softy, y’know? He’s not cut out for prison, man.”

Kyle nods.

“He broke up with me, did you know that?” Tweek asks. “When I went to visit, he broke up with me, he… he said he didn’t want to monopolize me, since he doesn’t know how long he’ll be in there, and I think…”

Tweek trails off. He picks at the ends of his sleeves, more insistent as he contemplates it all.

“Jesus, man, I— I love him, and I don’t want to lose him,” Tweek says. “But at the same time, I think— I think, in order to show _him_ I love him, I have to let this happen, y’know? I have to learn the difference between when I can fix things, and when I can’t… and I think this is something I can’t.”

“That’s…” Kyle ducks his head down, staring at the blank reflection of nothing that comes from somewhere within the bleachers below their feet. Grass has been torn up beneath the bleachers. Tweek can see it in the holes between the seats. Undoubtedly, Kyle can see it, too. Little strips. Little patterns. Little things. Kyle shakes his head. “You’re giving up.”

“I’m not giving up,” Tweek says. “I’m letting go, and he is, too— we’re moving on, and that’s okay.”

Kyle asks, “It doesn’t hurt?”

“Of course it hurts,” says Tweek. “I want nothing more than to protect him and make him happy.”

“Then try.”

“We did try, okay? For a long time, we tried, and it didn’t work.” Tweek sighs, pushing his fingers through his hair. “We love each other, but we’re not _meant_ for each other, y’know? We’re still friends, we’re still going to be there for each other however we can, with all of this bullshit, it’s just... going to be different.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything. Tweek regrets speaking. Kyle probably isn’t the greatest person to try and vent to. They haven’t gained enough trust, yet.

The trees have no leaves on them. It’s February.

“Is _he_ going to be okay?” Tweek asks, nodding to Kyle’s sweater. Kyle reacts like Tweek has slapped him, immediately jerking his gaze up.

“He’ll be okay,” Kyle says, insistently. “He’ll be okay, he has to be okay.”

Tweek wants to tell Kyle to stop lying to himself, but he holds back. He scoots a little closer. He ignores the way Kyle tenses. Tweek is tense, too. He hates the feeling of Kyle’s presence, strong and immovable beside him. It’s flaking, though. The toughness. It flakes, and it fades, until Kyle doesn’t look like _Kyle_ anymore.

Until Kyle looks like Stan did.

“Look, I know you said you don’t _want_ to talk about it, but if you ever _need_ to talk...” Tweek says, turning to face Kyle. Kyle shakes his head and averts his gaze. “Jesus, man, I’m being serious,  _look at me._ ”

Reluctantly, Kyle looks.

“If you ever need to talk, for any reason— whether it be about homework, or Stan, or… Jesus, _Cartman_ — I’m… I’m open, okay?” Tweek had started strong, but ended awkward. He scrambles to make up for it, clarifications already slipping out. “Or— hell, if you don’t want to talk, and you just want to be in the same room with another human being, I’m here. I mean, like, I get it. I don’t know what the fuck he did to you, exactly, but I know… I know what it’s like to lose control, and it’s terrifying, okay?”

Kyle’s eyes are wide. He hardly moves. He barely breathes. Tweek inhales.

“It’s terrifying,” Tweek chokes, “And no one deserves to go through that— to go through this— _alone_.”

There’s a particular note to the flush that coats Kyle’s cheeks. A particular hint to the tense of his frown, and to the ache so visible in his eyes. He looks so small, so defeated, so moral.

So, like… human? And it’s weird for Tweek to think it, but it’s true. He supposes he’s always held the others on a bit of a pedestal. Like they’ve been nothing but sculptures. Nothing but clay. Nothing but strangers, standing on mountains.

Kyle squeezes his eyes shut and whispers, “I need to talk about it.”

 

**FADE TO BLACK...**

 

**END**

**Written and Directed by:**  
**Tweek**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicide is never the answer.  
> hotline number, if needed:  
> 1-800-273-8255  
> you're not alone.  
> list of numbers for those outside of the usa:  
> http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html
> 
> national sexual assault hotline, if needed:  
> 1-800-656-4673  
> resources for those inside and outside of the usa:  
> http://www.ibiblio.org/rcip/internl.html
> 
>  
> 
> so, that concludes Part 2: Written and Directed by Tweek. 
> 
> for those who are interested, the planned posting date for Part 3 is March 25th, 2019.
> 
> thank you all so much for reading.
> 
> if y'all have any questions, feel free to ask them in the comments of this chapter (Epilogue).  
> i will answer what i can.
> 
> as always:  
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism / questions; all is welcome.
> 
> cheers. :)


End file.
